


Fate/Displaced

by CobalticArkangel



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night (Visual Novel), Fate/stay night - All Media Types, Fate/stay night: Unlimited Blade Works (Anime 2014)
Genre: Author Loves Comments, Because this is a freaking Fate fic, Cultural Differences, F/M, Language Barrier, Replies to them pretty damn fast, Self Loathing, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25545022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobalticArkangel/pseuds/CobalticArkangel
Summary: Amidst the ashes of a fallen kingdom, it's final king laid to rest atop the smoldering corpses. One she'd lead to prosperity. One she'd cherish and protect. She had been mistaken. Mortally wounded, The Proud king makes a final plea to the world in a desperate attempt for a chance to set right what she had once wronged - and it listened.Thrust into the unknown, among strangely-garbed people and bustling, glaring lights that blinded her addling vision. Lifeblood ebbing away, she'd resigned it all to a fantasy. A quaint, fevered dream from a dying woman, offered the pettiest of comforts in absurdity.What was there to do when someone called out to her, speaking in strange tongues as her own failed her? When his panicked pleas - not unlike her own from what felt like a lifetime ago, she dazedly realized - fell on slowly deafening ears. Soothed by the knowledge she was being mourned, if only for this fleeting moment, and by a stranger no less, The King of Knights rested her eyes with all the grace she could muster for the last time in her short life.Yet again, she had been wrong.(Welcome to Fate/Stay Night, where everyone is self-destructive and some people take it a bit more literally than most.)
Relationships: Emiya Shirou/Artoria Pendragon | Saber
Comments: 284
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this prompt is familiar. If you're a fan of this ship and haven't been living under a rock, you'll notice more than a few similarities with another entry on this site. It's called "Once And Future King" by TheBleachDoctor. It's really good, and the concept has really enamored me, as you can tell by the fact I'm trying my hand at the prompt.
> 
> Bottom line for the few that haven't read it, and even fewer that don't intend to, Seiba gets issekai'd into the future without any of the convenient grail knowledge.
> 
> Shoutout to MayaThePhoenix, my usual and bestest beta, for reality checking my characterizations and plot points. They played a huge part in getting my other fic off the ground and well into 100k words as well.

Debilitation. Disorientation. Wavering, waning strength. A king brought low by seven days of fierce, unending attrition. Among her people - no matter the coat of arms they wore, they were still her subjects. Even as they drew steel and twine and blood against the kingdom. Even as they cut down her forces - her court, her comrades. 

Mordred had rallied the sorrowful and the mourning among the populace, turning their embitterment into rage against her rule. Her son's forces were ill-equipped, with more than a few wielding little but sharpened farming implements. A pitchfork sailed into the corner of her vision, batted away by Excalibur. She turned to her assailant, attempting to flee from her gaze. A shield struck the man across the face, felling him atop his bisected comrade. A great-shield of ugly, wrought-iron buried itself into his neck, robbing him of even a final breath. 

Their armor was scavenged - dented plates and loose chainmail for the fortunate, in odd combinations and hastily and improperly fastened. It proved wanting against their capabilities, but what they lacked in skill was more than accommodated by willing flesh. A bold behemoth arced a greataxe above her head, intent to cut his king down. Her lance found the roof of his mouth. He twitched and coughed - fresh blood joining the grime of her helmless visage. The weapon clattered from his grasp, sinking into yet another corpse's bloody neck dague-first, a gruesome monument among hundreds recently made. 

Sleep came slowly and left wanting for every single day that dragged on, interrupted by enemy harassment and dark dreams. Exhaustion, then strain, then agony crept up limbs, burning from the exertion. Artoria quietly cursed at her own dependence on the treasure stolen from her. Avalon was a potent tool, but its absence was more than simply felt. Her mind clouded in brief, crippling hazes. She attempted to blink back her own exhaustion and failed miserably, moving on towards the loathsome evening ongoing.

Few of her knights remained by the sixth dawn of their campaign. Soon it was only Gawain. Loyal Gawain, fighting to the bitter, wretched end. Brave Gawain, eviscerated by Mordred's Clarent, and the beautiful white-silver treasure speckled and stained with the blood of betrayal. Gawain died bravely - but he would never be brave again. He fell where he stood, once-shimmering armor sullied and marred, his body lost among the multitudes - no, the mounds - of fallen friends and foes alike. 

But there was work to be done. Rhongomyniad seemed to meld into her grasp, anticipating. Against the maligned usurper who'd done this. Or rather, the pawn she'd left behind. 

"Is King Arthur here?! Where is the King of Knights?!" A distant voice beckoned - no, roared. Challenging. Familiar. Artoria made her way up the mountain of corpses, paying little heed to the ghoulish squelching and thick warmth oozing up and past her steel sabatons, creeping into her worn greaves. She planted Rhongomyniad in the earth behind her, careful to avoid sullying her lance with viscera. 

The Knight Of Treachery awaited her, panting over her blade. A corpse under the blade twitched and writhed for the briefest of moments, falling taut like a mangled puppet after the tainted Clarent had been pulled free of his backside. Her son turned to her, expectant. His arms stretched outward in derision - flecks of blood splattered from the tip of her stolen blade.

"Look!" he exclaimed. Artoria could feel the malicious grin snake under the horned helm. "How do you like it, King Arthur? Your precious country is finished!"

No. She wouldn't allow it. People needed her - depended on her. She would not fail them, even as they loathed her. Artoria remained silent.

"Face retribution for your refusal to relinquish the throne!"

Bitter laughter, perhaps, if she were Sir Tristan. A biting retort from Merlin, playful eyes promising consequences. Lancelot would likely dispatch him on the spot for the affront. 

But she was Artoria Pendragon, King of Knights. Anger was beneath her - this was judgement to be levied. Nothing else. There was no satisfaction, standing atop the smoke and the ash and the cloying, festering remains of the people slain. No victory to be had - she had left that behind, shattered with Caliburn's remnants far too long ago. 

She readied Excalibur. 

Mordred huffed in frustration, disappointed by her stoicism. "Do you hate me? Do you have such a deep hatred of me, because I'm a child of a witch?" 

Her mask faltered, for the briefest of moments. Pained, pervasive memories flooded into her mind, quelled into silence soon after, but not soon enough. The experience was damning to recall. She refused to grant it the privilege of a moment longer. "-nswer me, Arthur!" 

Mordred charged, brandishing her blade. Excalibur raised to meet it. Anger ebbed, untamed. She let it overpower her own form, allowing Excalibur to clatter away. 

"Never once have I harbored hatred toward you." Artoria said, voice earnest and distant. It was the truth - how could she? Mordred was a knight. Mordred had served her dutifully until her admiration yielded to malice. Mordred was her son. More importantly, Mordred was her subject. The responsibility fell on Artoria alone- there was simply no holding children responsible for such sins. But duty to her kingdom demanded to hold her accountable for her treachery. Mordred gasped at the revelation. Remorse, perhaps?

Pity. Artoria's hand gently grasped the handle she'd set behind her.

"The reason I did not relinquish the throne to you-" 

She lunged, burying Rhongomyniad deep into her child's chest. Taken by surprise, a wet mumble bubbled from her son's lips, armor rended and insides mangled by the weapon.

"-was that you lacked the qualities required of a king." 

She pushed her lance deeper. More pained gasps to be ignored by the oath-bound king. Mordred's mask shattered, failing it's promise of protection. 

"F-Father..." crimson dribbled down her son's chin. Mordred reached for her hands, still clasped around the weapon that took her life. She winced in muted pain as the motion dug her wound deeper, but never yielded. He died reaching for his king's - no, his father's - hand, finding them unwaveringly distant, just as in life.

_Pity._

She glanced at her child's eyes - bloodshot, trembling. It trickled down her tear-stained face, weeping blood. 

And she swung - form poor and wild, but deadly nonetheless. The same slash that killed Gawain, intending to cut her in twain. Artoria lunged backwards, avoiding the first attack, failing at the second. Clarent buried itself into her abdomen, stymieing the bleeding in a brief reprieve from her own mortality. She would bleed and she would die. She was strong, of course, but the wound was mortal. Artoria would simply expire slowly, succumbing to it all. 

The Knight of Treachery departed the world, staring at the king she'd betrayed even in death. 

<\- ->

_No. Not like this._

Artoria clutched at her wound, sunken just below her breastplate. Her gauntleted fist returned to her vision, stained scathing red between the links. It would be difficult to clean if - no, when - she managed to recover. 

No, that was a lie. A pleasant hope, as well as an idle one. She would die as the last survivor of the battle of Camlann. A fallen king amidst the smoldering ash and bloated corpses. Flies buzzed and distorted within earshot, yet she could not find the strength to bat them aside. It was disheartening in the most aggravating of ways. 

A stumbled step forward, tripping over a fallen soldier's warped chainmail. Her head struck a rigid shield standing proud, and her vision blurred and doubled. Warmth flowed down her head, matting dirtied blond with caked blood. The battle frenzy had worn off, and the silence and the hollow and the cold had seeped into her very being, urging her to rest. Close her eyes, for she'd earned a reprieve. All Artoria needed was one glance around her to remember she hadn't, and one glance at herself to know she never would. 

But no. It couldn't be - The King Of Knights had failed. Artoria Pendragon had fallen long before she'd died.

Where had it all gone wrong - why hadn't she seen it. Why had she allowed it? 

She pleaded. To anyone. Everyone. Who would listen. Who might listen. Her pride be damned.

Better that then the kingdom in cinders. Then the subjects she'd slaughtered to protect the ones she hadn't. A pointless, painful tragedy - it ought to have been her fate alone. 

A haunting song swept into her mind, understanding ebbing into her being alongside the jagged instrumental. Akin the silent, meaningful glances and gestures she'd shared with her own court of knights when Artoria knew words would fail her, everything came quickly and implicitly. Despair dragging nails across her enfeebled heart, crushing the final, desperate breaths in her lungs. Diminishing the little strength she had left, insistent on little beyond the undivided attention of the felled King of Knights. 

A debt for a debt. A meaningless, fading life for the thousands she'd spent - no, wasted. An eternity in service - no different from her own rule in anything but length. It called out to her. It beckoned with its rancid, merciless allure. Another chance amidst the countless ones she'd squandered. 

It came with servitude. It was degrading, but acceptable. Who was she, weighed against the scale of the tragedy? One she'd molded, no less, despite her every intention. 

The song warped, distorted. Dissonance retched and rolled, losing itself in conflict that went beyond her understanding, but not her comprehension. Artoria screamed in agony as the sour note contorted her mind. Memories turned into fantasies, and fantasies faded into nothingness. Then they returned, and repeated, for an incomprehensible eternity. A battle. Something was fighting the promise maker. It was a stalemate, and she was their battlegrounds. Her mind was crushed, reformed, splattered, forced back into shape until her screeching voice cracked and failed and caught in her desiccated throat. Mercifully, the King of Knights faded from her world, blinking back pointless tears. 

<\- ->

_Lights. Such wonderful lights._

Warm, like hearths. High above the ground, atop metal lamps. Untended by flames - they were so gentle. Artoria willed her body to move, and it groaned in protest of the exertion, and she collapsed yet again. Something soft creased and crumpled beneath her. Only then did the scent of her surroundings pervade her thoughts - of rot and refuse. Scraps of decayed meat. Burnt clothing. Another material she couldn't quite identify - acrid and sulfurous, somewhere out of view. She craned her neck to see, and her body finally yielded its last dredges of strength. A dull edge - an errant scabbard, likely - dug painfully into her back. She rocked her figure gently in a fruitless attempt to alleviate the intrusion, to little avail, and she accepted the discomfort in her final moments. 

_A corpse pile._

What else could it be? Everything smelled of the sweet, sickening rot. Lined in alien receptacles - black and thin and sorted into tied, uneven piles. Not even large ones - even Artoria's svelt figure couldn't fit into such a place with any semblance of decorum. She'd need to curl up into a ball to simply fit such a cramped container. A macabre thought passed her mind - had the fallen been mutilated to fit such spaces properly? Perhaps it had been for the best she hadn't been granted their twisted funeral rites.

She'd been stripped of her few valuables. Excalibur's reassuring weight no longer rested on her person. Rhongomyniad had been embedded in Mordred's torso - someone had likely pried the holy relic off his corpse. Artoria spoke her late son's name, a bitter lament at what had happened. How it ended. And again, now a frail whisper. The indignity would have made her blood boil if it hadn't been already, leaving her feverish yet wracked with shuddering chills. Avalon had been stolen away from her long before. Even her armor had been taken - gauntlets and graves stripped by scavengers. The breastplate that did little against her mortal wounding had been pried off what they'd thought to be her corpse. They weren't wrong for thinking that - it was simply a matter of time for the late king. 

The little dignity they'd afforded was leaving her torn gambeson, but even that was more likely than not mere and familiar pragmatism. Armor could be repaired. Weapons could be sold. There was no use for blood-clotted clothing, even if it came from a fallen king. She tried to move again, barely making out the tell-tale sound of crusted, brittle blood crumbling from the motion. It was no use - it took all composure she could muster merely not to whimper. 

She had died. It was just a matter of waiting for her body to realize that. The moon was rather pretty, though.

An ignominious death for a failure of a king - Artoria would take any comfort she could, no matter how pointless the measure it offered. She lost herself to the comforting moonlight - back in more pleasant times. Before she'd needed all of her contingencies. When her knights hadn't looked at her in judging disgust, or worse, forlorn resignation. Simpler times, with Caliburn in her grasp. When chivalry was a way of life to her, and not a convenience to be discarded like her broken blade. The original Sword of Promised Victory - the triumphs after it shattered always seemed so Pyrrhic in comparison. 

_A voice. Calling out._

Artoria blinked out of her hazy musings. 

_Young. Desperate._

A true voice - unlike the intrusive experience she'd idly recalled happening before. It echoed in her ears rather than reverberating through her skull. It didn't hurt in the least. Token comforts, but welcome regardless. He spoke frantically, in a strange tongue. Perhaps one of the residents of the odd village she'd been deposited in... somewhere she hadn't known before. Artoria glanced about, looking for the mysterious voice. Her eye caught glimmering, shattered glass for a moment - a boy sprinting past in the reflection. Perhaps the age she'd have been, had Caliburn and eventually Avalon not succeeded in their duties. A mop of red, unkempt hair. Strange apparel - clean and neat, far too thin to be wool. It might have been silk - he must have been wealthy indeed. Sweat beaded on his forehead - dark eyes pained, frantic. He stood atop her limp, undignified form, streaming unknown words at a breakneck pace. 

Questions, most likely. Ones she couldn't answer, even if she could understood a damnable word of what he said. He knelt before her, hand reaching for the mortal wound. She swatted a fist at the motion, listlessly striking another bagged body to her left. It shattered from the impact, and Artoria hissed in muffed pain. 

The boy stopped. His panicked eyes sank further into miserable anguish. 

_Was he... crying?_

She couldn't hear it - and had resigned herself to the realization she never would, anything, ever again. Wetness streaked down his face. Clear as a river, unlike her son's bloodshot weeping. Shedding honest tears for a dying stranger. 

It was... welcome. Though she wouldn't have preferred this outcome - the boy seemed wracked in helplessness she wouldn't wish on anyone - being mourned was consoling. Even if it be as a stranger, and not a king. As a stranger, and not a comrade. It was a true comfort she desperately needed in her waning hour of life - more than the moon and the memories had granted her. She'd wished she could bequeath the boy something for his unfiltered kindness. Anything of value, equal to the solace he'd provided. 

But there was nothing on hand. Even if there was, Artoria doubted she could give it, in the wretched state she was in. She would make due. 

The King of Knights smiled at the boy, fighting to keep it from turning into a grimace. Smiling for your people was often all that could be done, in trying times like this. He deserved some measure of assurance. Thick warmth trickled down her lips, tasting of bitter iron. She felt it stain her teeth - blood. Artoria coughed and hacked, scarlet flecks staining the pit she would die in. A stubborn, bloody globule clung to her cheek, staining her weathered visage even more. 

Her attempts at comfort had been a failure, as expected but hoped against despite that. Unfortunate.

Another failure tallied amidst her growing list, coming to a perhaps merciful close to the hollow, defeated king of a kingdom torched to cinders. 

Artoria Pendragon, son of Uther Pendragon, King of Knights, Ruler of fallen Britannia, rested. Her weary eyes yielded to an eternal slumber. 

She had never imagined death came so warmly - a gentle embrace as the world drifted into distance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dague - the top part of a battleaxe. The spiky bit.
> 
> Sabatons - the part under the greaves. Where knights would wear shoes... if they weren't wearing sabatons.
> 
> Rewatching the Apocrypha fight scene, and just realized she pulled her spear outta nowhere. Didn't know she had an armory NP. Rewatched the original fight scene, was wondering why she was dual wielding them. Made the best compromise I could given the intended tone of this story.
> 
> I'll make a point not to borrow dialogue anymore, but this scene kind of worked well with what I had in mind. Gives me some semblance of structure to integrate.
> 
> Also, I've got a habit of utilizing limited POVs to showcase perspective. Mordred is a she, but not from Artoria's viewpoint. You'll encounter a lot of objectively questionable things from this limitation, but I feel that it enriches the contained narrative enough to justify it.
> 
> So, my warped headcanon for Mordred's conception comes from "Contractual Obligations". Probably the best time travel to Britain fate fic I've ever read, though updates are kinda... not, anymore. Been 2 years, but quality holds up amazingly. This kinda explains her difficult response in the show, being less shame and more forced silence. It's on ff.net.
> 
> Hope you had fun reading this. This was a nice project to start on again, now that the Fate hype is back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Limited POV is fun to show perspective, but I'm afraid I might not be getting certain events across. That would be my failing, but I'd like to alleviate them if it gets too ridiculous. Feel free to comment if you believe this type of clarifications are necessary or if I've gotten my message across regardless of perspective limitations.  
> Regarding dialogue, there will be some grammar mistakes when native speakers try to communicate with Artoria. I'll limit them so as not to be too irritating or overbearing, and I've made sure the type of errors they make are well in line with what most learning speakers often do. 
> 
> Lastly, I'm hoping I won't have to make use of this limitation for long - or at the very least ensure it won't break your immersion. A few stilted lines, forgotten articles, or misattributed prepositions are warranted to showcase the bridge in communication they have to work with. 
> 
> I'll consider revising this if I find it too cumbersome, and if enough people agree with the sentiment, but as of now I've put more work into cultivating some typos than some of the actual proper sentences.

_Bright. Oh so bright..._

_Light. Blinding._

Brilliant, warm, and far too close for her liking. It glared through her slumber, prodding at her face and features incessantly until the King of Knights finally stirred. 

It took some effort - loathe as she was to admit it - to force her lidded eyes open. Artoria's head swam as the world blurred into focus, distorting and fading and folding in ways that made her want to retch from the experience. Invasive whites, bleached oak walls... no, not oak. It lacked the warmth, the grime, the texture. It was something else, flat and alien. 

As was the rest of the room. She could vaguely discern the purpose of some of her surroundings - a drying barrel by the corner along with a table by her side, inlaid with a good number of uniform knobs. The barrel was an oddity - tiny and gleaming, like polished armor. It spoke of either wealth or wastefulness of their owner, and yet again Artoria wondered where exactly she was. An afterlife, perhaps? It would certainly explain the decadence of her hosts. Her kingdom's people spoke of a heaven of harps and clouds and splendor, while the Nords thundered hymns of great halls of feasting and mead. But it was silent, there were no clouds, and the room was devoid of any semblance of sustenance - The King of Knights would know best on such matters. 

She willed herself to rise, relieved not to endure the indignity of a failing body yet again. Her limbs ached and her shoulders trembled, which was likely a good sign. It was said heaven stripped the suffering of all their burdens in life. Hell did the opposite - infusing vivid, pointed pains in every aspect of one's being. She was somewhere in between those states, so she was either alive or in purgatory - which was, at best, extremely unlikely. Artoria had paid her fiscal dues to the church religiously.

Alive it was, then. Unexpected, but welcome. 

She forced her arm to stretch - right first, across the opposite shoulder. Years of practiced swordsmanship left the limb durable, even without Avalon's blessing. It obeyed her without protest. Then came the other limb, until a feint tug resisted the motion. She traced the sensation all the way to the source and balked at her findings. 

A needle. A bloody - in every sense of the term - needle in her arm! What was she, a dress? Was it someone's attempt at amusement? 

That might have been preferable, despite her irritation. Along the implement were odd bits of material, clinging to what appeared to be a see-through worm. Long, clear fluid trickled down the contorted insect, all the way to a clear waterskin half-filled with the unknown brew. Poison, then? It had to be.

Dragon's blood had given her resistance to most mundane toxins, but Morgan - who else could it have been? - was nothing but determined. Given time and patience, her elder could create more than a few loathsome concoctions that would spell the end of even the most stalwart dragons, and Artoria was but a fraction of their size and purity. She hastily yanked it from her being, massaging the affected fist gingerly. 

It bled. More than expected from such a tiny wound - she had been right after all. If just that little of the hazardous decoction could cause such bleeding, any more would likely spell her doom on the battlefield. No, not even the battlefield - an assassin's blade would need but a nick, and Avalon's absence would ensure the fatality of such a method. Morgan's sadism truly knew no bounds. A pit deep within her settled dangerously, gnawing at her insides - Mordred's final blow. That meant it was real, and it had happened - nothing could hurt this much yet remain imaginary. The wounded king hissed in pain, stifling the sound into forced silence. 

Artoria hastily wrapped the blanket over her figure around the wound, binding it tightly around the injury. The material was soft and almost inviting, and an irrational part of the bedridden king's mind loathed soiling such a thing with blood. The practical side of her ignored this, continuing with what needed to be done. A foreign room in a foreign land, where the lights shone brighter than the sun and the scent of stale, unsweetened wine burned at her nostrils. The King of Knights would be no one's hostage. 

She made to stand, swinging her legs over the soft bed, onto the smooth, cold floor that sent chills up her bare feet and legs. Only then did she realize her shredded gambeson had been done away with, replaced by a nightgown the shade of clean snow, exposing a good deal of her youthful figure. The impulse to cover herself with the remnants of the silken blanket was checked and silenced by urgency - the wide sheet would inhibit her movements. Of the myriad of ways for Artoria's life to end, vanity would certainly not be among the causes. A burst of mana and a quick yank from her free hand tore off the excess of her wound's improvised bindings, and she continued towards the door. 

Which wouldn't yield. She pushed, and she pulled, to no avail. She'd even tried the strange protrusion - presumably a complicated hinge of these people - to match all the nonexistent progress she'd made prior. Traces of frustration began to simmer within as she glared at the affront to her capabilities. It would submit before she would, that much was beyond certain. 

It did, technically speaking. Thirty arduous seconds and a good deal of stubborn, directionless clicking later, the door had been opened. Rather, the door frame had been left as such, its original inhabitant blown of its hinges in an act of obstinance against the wrong person, now leaning gently against the wall within her prison's quarters. It would do Artoria no good to advertise she had escaped her confines. The exertion of lifting even that, despite her strength being supplemented by mana, wrenched against her insides painfully. Wounds of her gravitas turned septic at the best of times - Avalon would have trivialize that. Avalon trivialized a good deal of things she'd never even realized before. She needed to get to Merlin, wherever he might have went. The kingdom needed him - she needed him. Which she'd never admit to his perpetually-smug grin. 

People across the halls. Decorated in encapsulating blue across their figures, masked in similarly-bright hues. The quality was superb - not a single strand of fabric off-color. In fact, not a single thread was even out of place to see such concerns. A shade akin to her royal cloak, only paler, but undoubtedly expensive. To do so for so many people... her captors must have been well-funded indeed. The trio had been lugging along another on a rack - the man lying in it looked unwell, from the little she saw of the scene. Ugly, welting purple bruises layered the figure's exposed chest. She shuddered to imagine what could have dealt such a fate to him, composing herself with the knowledge that it was likely something on the premises she wandered about that inflicted such. Artoria readied herself - which merely meant her posture straightened a bit tenser than it had been, but the gesture brought her a bit more reassuring confidence against whatever lied in wait. 

The trio and their victim departed, and she made her way past the halls that echoed with her padded footfalls. There must be an opening somewhere - a door, or even a low balcony should the need be dire enough. Artoria would make her way out of this accursed fortress and deal with the rebellions properly. It would be a challenge without her comrades, who'd all fallen in one way or another, but she owed it to her kingdom - and their memories - to try. 

Another voice, calling out. The same frantic tone, but it lacked the youth the memory's own had possessed. A woman's, grating and nasally. It grew in volume, and her own footsteps redoubled in her effort to escape. The voice in pursuit hushed from the distance, yells edging towards breathless. 

Artoria spoke for her people, and her affronts were inherited as their burdens. Straining relations with any kingdom, no matter how removed from her own, would only hamper her efforts in leading them away from ruin. Despite her distaste of whatever happened to occur in the premises, her kingdom came first. 

Another of her kind - dressed in pale blue - emerged into view. From a corner that didn't seem to be so - the building was bizarre. The short, stocky man stood in view, and yelled with her initial pursuer pointedly, likely coordinating their effort. Artoria could barely make out some of his features peek out from behind his mask. Long, slanted eyes, sun-kissed skin, a rather small nose - likely the residents of Cathay. 

She'd welcomed them, as much as any sensible ruler could, but her subjects held conflicted opinions of their new visitors. It was difficult to entice their presence amidst the poor reputation some of her holds had irrevocably cultivated in their interactions. Her other pursuer had similar features as well... as did the trio transporting the wounded man. Perhaps she was in Cathay? It would explain the strangeness of her surroundings somewhat - a king so rarely enjoyed travel for pleasure, after all. 

And likely never would, as a third had joined their odd fray from the corner of her vision. They'd come from where the first man had, but sprinted at a rather respectable pace for someone without mana infusions... then again, they weren't dealing with any potentially-mortal wounds, so perhaps the advantage evened out in the end...

_Now was not the time._

She pushed the pointless thoughts away, focusing on her immediate surroundings. Two paths and three pursuers, though the King of Knights retained her distance at the cost of pained exertion. Perhaps she could have dealt with them, but they were all unarmed. Not any less dangerous, but she'd had more than a lifetime's fill of bloodshed.

She would find out soon enough - two more had stood in her way, arms crossed, walling of her escape. Garbed in a lighter blue with exposed faces. They were far more than their counterparts, with white gloves, impeccable leather boots, and a quaint little hat that shone in the odd lights. Then they uncrossed their stance, unbound their stoic expressions, falling into a state best described as... distraught, of all things. The two voices overlapped, desperately waving open hands in front of their faces. To show they were unarmed, likely - despite the short cudgels strapped to their waists. Or perhaps to show that they chose to be that way despite that. 

The other three had caught up, warily edging near her in the brief moment she chose to hesitate. They had raised their own hands in kind, palms outstretched towards the ceiling. Claiming to mean no harm. They maintained their distance, but paid rapt attention to the scene before them, mumbling in their alien tongue.

It was irritating to be observed like that - she could feel their stares boring into the back of her head. 

One of the pair approached her - the younger, she'd assumed. His face was far less weathered than their partner, though no less anxious at the moment. A hand raised in front of him in appeasement, with the other resting no more than an inch from the armament by his hip. Artoria shifted her stance readily.

To his credit, the man noticed his mistake. The wandering hand darted back in front of his face to join its partner, and he slowly, gingerly approached her. Words were exchanged - rather, words were spoken. Meaningless words to her - all she could garner was the tone, hushed and gradual. Just as a shepherd would use to coax their herd. 

She tensed, and he hopped a half step back, now raising his gloved hands higher than his head. His gaze flickered between the floor and her eyes as he attempted to approach again. Artoria could sense no killing intent emanating from him - nor anyone else in their little crowd. No malice to speak of, and her instincts were rarely wrong. Rarely. 

The sigh of relief he released was palpably loud, shared between everyone but her. And the number accounting for everyone had grown considerably - just under half a dozen had joined the spectacle, flanking previously-unguarded paths. They must have been penning her in, then. 

The King of Knights felt someone enter her guard - instincts not entirely failing. Artoria's hands balled in anticipation, of the calm before the tempest inevitably agitated. A hand fell on her shoulder, mumbled words entered her ears, and she'd lashed out from the contact. 

An open palm - she didn't want to kill, just escape - from the tiny king struck him square in the chest. He launched a fair distance away, sprawling flat on the floor. He clutched at his torso, heaving strained breaths from the blow. 

That might have been enough... she just wanted to leave. Despite what she'd seen. More important matters were to be attended to, and they might have the wisdom to recognize the folly in standing between a king and her ailing kingdom. She wouldn't particularly keen on demonstrating another reminder. 

No such good fortune, as the roughshod crowd converged into a mob. Not quite moving against her, but ensuring she had to pass them in pursuit of freedom. They were hesitating, murmuring among themselves likely on how best to proceed. She took a step forward, then another, paced at a deliberate gait - regal, poised, set, and insistent. They would part in her path or she would make them... Artoria hoped it wouldn't come to that. 

Then the boy in her mind darted across her vision. A blur clothed in light, earthy brown and a head full of disheveled crimson.

Out of breath, hands on his knees for the briefest of moments. He settled himself properly, though still gasping from the effort. The boy clasped his hands together before her, shaking them pleadingly and bowing his head. She took a step forward, and he inserted himself in her path, wearing the same expression and stretching his arms wide across, barring her path. And again. No matter her thoughts on the matter, he was being an obstacle in her return. The boy was complicit. He was getting in her way...

No, he was getting between her and the others. Artoria had noticed it after a brief bout of uncharacteristic annoyance. The others looked at him worriedly - the few within eyeshot, and presumably the distant ones behind her. A masked figure - the first on to chase her - made to pull the boy away, only to get refused with a determined shake of the head, returning to his personally appointed post. He must have been protecting them. From her. 

And why wouldn't he? The man she'd struck, she'd finally realized, had been surrounded by his compatriots. Four of them, heedless of her intimidating presence. Level voices and clipped commands, hinting at compassionate professionalism, nodding at his words and feeling for his wound. Treating him like a... physician. Were they all doctors? Was she amidst one of God's houses? 

They weren't harming her. They hadn't tried. Even now, their cudgels had rested, undrawn and unused. She had been an idiot - they boy had found her, and she was alive, yet all that had crossed her addled mind was the misplaced certainty it had been little but a brewing scheme. They'd saved her life: the wound had been been crippling - no, mortal. Yet she could walk, and she could breath, and she had been granted time she didn't deserve.

And all she'd done with the blessing was cause pain to her saviors. And the boy was defending them from her impulsive warpath. 

Shame knotted and pooled in her innards, hurting far more than the wound she'd received. It gathered and poured in rivets, seeping into her pointless pride, shattering her resolve. A ruthless tyrant... looking at the actions she'd taken, perhaps her subjects hadn't been mistaken. 

The King of Knights surrendered. Thin arms drooped to the side, and her head fell in regret. An arm - her own, she numbly realized - rubbed at her shoulder, nursing warmth into the suddenly-frigid area. She'd no idea when that had happened, and why her instincts had seen fit not to retaliate. Perhaps it had been for the best.The cold crept with the hollow, and her indignation had been chilled by more than mere cold. 

The boy who'd saved her... the boy who'd stopped her... the boy who'd have kept trying, she was certain of it, took her hand. Likely to ensure she wouldn't raise them against his people again. He need not concern himself about such a thing, though even if she could speak she doubted she'd earned the right to be heard. A few words were exchanged between the boy and another of the people she'd been prepared to harmed - the rotund lady answered with such forced calm - and sent him on his way, down the halls she'd sprinted past what felt like only mere moments ago. 

A doctor awaited her in the room she'd broken past, anxious but determined not to balk in her presence. She could respect that, even if the man couldn't understand it. 

The boy who saved her was chatting away with them, explaining a good bit of things. He'd even let go of her grasp - and it was bothersome to admit she'd held on as much as he had - to presumably explain what had happened. The patient doctor nodded on occasion, shook his head at others, and never deviated from their warm tones. The doctor thanked the boy - she had to have, given her motions - and pointed past the door Artoria had removed. He shook his head politely. He'd asked again, and was met with a more turbulent shake of the head, followed by him pointing at her messy wound bindings. 

The brave doctor looked at her, raising a hand palm-down. He pinched over his other hand, resting it barely past the knuckle, before gently pulling it straight away. 

_The parasite, perhaps? The one she'd found burrowed in her fist alongside a needle._

She nodded, repeating the gesture with her afflicted hand. 

"I..." the doctor began - she'd understood it!

"My apologies for my behavior. I swear to atone for my actions in full, on my kingdom's honor. Please, allow me to do so. I've harmed one of your people - let me begin there!" she'd interrupted, a torrent she hadn't meant to release all at once. The two before her looked confused at her words, staring at each other briefly, then searching for any worthwhile retort - it was heartrending to realize neither of them understood what she'd said. 

"I... not very good. English. I will... try." It came with a peculiar accent, clipped at some letters, laced with hesitation. "You are... safe. Let us help you. Hand, please." 

The lack of understanding frustrated Artoria - her own. She'd only ever needed one tongue in her lifetime. Many would chide the physician for such a poor grasp of her language - her people were often no exception. They would have cursed at him in their shortsightedness and entitlement, trying to heal them wordlessly.

It was the simple realization that he struggled in his speech because she could not comprehend his that quelled any such thought. She stifled her flaring pride and did as instructed - the boy smiled at her for cooperating. It was pleasant, and rolled and washed away the raw sharpness from her bare shoulders.

She needed his name. A title, at the least. "Do you speak English?" Artoria asked, meeting his eyes. Golden brown, rather large and rounded compared to his kinsmen. 

He nodded. "Yes. Not... too well. Yet." Better spoken, though the accent clung heavily and his eyes seemed lost in search of what to say next.

He settled on pointing at himself instead. "Emiya Shirou." The name came far more naturally to her than anything she'd heard from her stay.

"Then I am pleased to meet you, Emiya." She bowed her head, emulating the sign she'd seen repeated so many times already. 

"Miss... Miss Mordred, right?" He asked, uncertainly. 

Her world crumbled, then resettled as if nothing had happened. "No. That is not my name." Reining in errant emotion had been honed to perfection by nearly a decade of practice - but now, more than ever, the struggle pulsed through her body in, unwanted and carefully stifled. 

"Right. Um." He - Emiya - began, uncertain how to proceed but blissfully unaware of her tested self-control. "Sorry. You... answered that name when I finded you at the alley."

Found - Sir Kay's lectures echoed in her memory. Artoria ignored the incessant impulse to correct him - Emiya could speak understandably well enough. "And you brought me to this hospice - this hospital?" She corrected, once it had been made abundantly clear they'd no idea what that word meant.

Emiya nodded in confirmation, continuing slowly. "You were bleeding so much..." 

She must have been - Clarent had cut deep through her youthful, unchanging figure. The mere thought of the experience brought forth phantoms pains to plague her, and she'd grit her teeth for as long as needed until it subsided into something bearable. "Thank you for saving me." 

"Thank you. For being alive." It seemed honest enough. Such a rarity in these trying times, with her world in shambles. It reminded her of Galahad a great deal - a clean heart, driven by unwavering care. "Please. Do not hurt anyone else." 

"I... I will refrain - I shall not raise a hand against another here." Emiya took a moment to process it - the king briefly worried she'd overused her own vernacular - and sighed in relief. She'd fallen for such poor judgement yet again - it was suddenly far easier to grasp why her people had betrayed their king. Not that she could ever accept their reasoning, but she could see how dangerously simple it was to lapse irregardless, consequences be damned. 

"I have work today. Do you mind if I left while your stay here?" He explained, paused, then reflected. "During. During your stay. You'll be safe here, and I promise to be back." 

Of course - he was youthful, but far from a child. Rather far in fact, dwarfing her own figure by a great deal. Which was bothersome to admit, and the pettiest of yearnings had the King of Knights sorely begin to miss her crown and boots. It was strange to be reminded just how incipient her body still was thanks to Avalon, despite her mind and experience boasting of labors and battle that would give even the hardiest of people pause. She wasn't particularly fond of the feeling. 

And of course he'd need to be earning his keep - it would have been more than expected, given his likely age. She'd taken more than a good deal of his time in her weakness, which demanded an apology from her. "Of course. There is no need to trouble yourself over me - you've done more than well. I thank you for your aid in my time of need." 

"No trouble - no trouble at all." Emiya assured quietly, laughing her appreciation off. It might have been insulting had she not realized the boy was simply unaccustomed to gratitude. The King of Knights privately swore to amend that once she had the opportunity - Galahad could do well with a like-minded squire, and she could imagine Emiya would make for an excellent knight in a few years time. "I'll go now. Promise to come back again. Please just rest and get better." 

And he'd left, just like that. Hefting a knapsack she'd failed to notice the entire time, footstep echos softening into silence with distance. 

"You're very lucky, oj-lady." The physician she'd forgotten existed in the room reminded, then amended. "Very deep lacerations... ruptured organs... and exposure to the elements for an ind... indeter... unknown length of time. It could have been far worse, your injury." 

"La-cer-a-tions?" She repeated slowly. The word came in knots, confusing and meaningless to her. 

"A cut. Or a stab, in your case. It pierced deeply - you were fortunate not to bleed out, for a lady of your size." 

She grunted softly in acknowledgement, ignoring the irritation at the term. At the very least, it confirmed they knew nothing of her true identity. regardless of her debt to the place and its inhabitants, the less said about herself the better. "Then I am grateful for your care. All of your care." 

"I'm grateful you're grateful, then." he returned, chuckling at something unknown to her. It must have shown on her face, for he voiced his clarification.

"I'm... sorry. If we'd known you spoke that, well, we'd have made... pre-pa-ra-tions." It was odd to hear the struggle in the lilt of his tone. Perhaps some words came more naturally than others, or maybe he'd simply encountered the former ones far more often. "With your blond hair and green eyes, I guess we should have known better... did you, were you, the door? Was it?" 

"Yes." She answered bluntly, to an expression of nervous bafflement. "Have no fear - I can assure you the damages I'd wrought will be well compensated for."

It might have, more than figuratively, been the actual least she could do. Artoria made note of the need to contact an envoy once the issue had settled itself, both to reward her young savior and apologize for the hasty judgement that thankfully didn't lead to damning repercussions. Yet. 

"Yes, well..." he trailed off, pulling down his mask to reveal a scuffed, black beard of stubble. It reminded her vaguely of the goats she'd seen frolicking in her youth, though Artoria tactfully kept the memory to herself. "You should not... exert yourself like that?"

It came as a question, despite the warning. "I shall refrain from doing so, then." she promised, hoping to atone for her transgressions with cooperativeness.

If anything, the older man looked even more baffled at her promise of restraint. He'd seemed to push it aside for the moment, in favor of whatever they'd planned to heal her with. "You're very strong then, lady. But I need to return the IV tube - that needle you pulled out earlier. It is very important." 

He moved towards her carefully, gingerly unwrapping her shoddy bindings. The sound of crusted fabric being pulled apart was one she'd been all to familiar with. The needle came back with little fanfare, unveiled from a little bag and meticulously polished into a sheen. It pricked and broke the skin - it felt peculiar simply allowing such to happen.

"Good job." He praised, unintentionally patronizing the King of Knights. A sense of obligation bound her to correct his line of thinking, but she'd more than earned the indignity. In fact, it might have simply been his way to avoid aggravating her wrath - which she'd, unfortunately, already come to demonstrate. The shame stayed her hand. 

"I'll need to ask for a new bedsheet... to replace the one that, yes..." 

The one she'd ruined. Just a short while before she'd violated sacred hospitality - her ignorance meant little consolation. A king - no, a knight - ought to have acted better. 

"Don't worry." He assured, likely noting her well-earned dejection. "I'll just ask the staff for replacement. Please keep resting." 

The pain of Artoria's wound had dulled somewhat - it thrummed rather than throbbed, constant but tolerable. She could stand, which was more than could be said for the multitudes she'd seen cut down. She had all her limbs functional , if a bit stiff. Fortune smiled on her yet again, just as it shone away from her people... 

No. She was alive to remedy that. She would remedy that. No use to dwell on despair that demanded nothing but alleviation. A king was duty bound to their people. Her success was shared with them, and her subjects to be shielded from her failings. She would fight for her kingdom until she died. And nothing would kill her until she succeeded.

The king wouldn't permit their own death while their people suffered, or their own failings to be spread like a plague.

Indeed. The king's word was law, binding even themselves. 

So The King of Knights rested, despite the restlessness forcing its way into her limbs. Artoria forced herself to lay down, meticulously clasping her hands around her thin stomach. Mustering all the grace she could into the gesture - as anything less would be unbecoming of her position. Her eyes fixed at the ceiling, enraptured by the lights she'd so casually disregarded. Magecraft, perhaps? Merlin had similar tools in his study, though his crystals were rounded in shape and far more dazzling. They looked nothing like the long, angular things she'd barely made out the shape to be. 

"Oh, sorry." A voice interrupted. "The boy - Emiya, was it - left something for you. Before he'd ran off - the first time he did, yes..." 

A weighted thud rumbled in the corner of her left ear - ceramic, it had to be. Then followed by soft scurrying footsteps as her caretaker vacated the room. Artoria inclined her head to spot what had been laid by her bedside.

Flowers. Lovely, tapered blossoms. The sweet scents mingled with unmistakable dampness - set in water, then. Not even a hint of earth clung in the air. A modest bouquet, by all means. It paled in comparison to the decadent handheld gardens she'd seen in her court. Some would have even said it was nothing, if they'd seen the laurels and blossoms and florets she'd given to her dear friend and unloved wife Guinevere - out of a mix of obligation for her duties as a husband, alongside a great deal of appreciation for her sacrifice. A modest little set, likely plucked from a personal garden or along a wild road - some of her more decadent viceroys would even claim them to be sickly. But it was by her side, a gift freely given, and the only speckle of color in this suffocating, two-toned room. 

So Artoria Pendragon kept her gaze on the humble posy, enamored by little sprigs of color she'd long since believed herself to have outgrown years ago.

It was a rare day when the King of Knights had been proven wrong. Rarer still the moments she'd found herself delighted by it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone struggling to understand what happened, given the limited medium and perspective, I'll be happy to explain if or when anyone asks for it. Hopefully future entries will make far more sense, contextually. At the very least, instances like this will gradually fade away as our POV character familiarizes herself with the world. 
> 
> Also, Purple might be the default "rare color dye" most people think of in the past times. It's not wrong per se, but applies more to a different culture. Purple was super rare in Greek and Rome, if I'm remembering it right. The absurdly unique color for the Medieval era was velvet from some research I've done into it. Purples and Blues were pretty on par with one another, and do bear in mind Artoria's color scheme makes use of a lot of blue - doubt she'd use such a "cheap" color as her status symbol as a king. 
> 
> Cathay - an alternative historical name given by Europeans for China. 
> 
> Yes, I know she's in Japan, and it doesn't equate at all. It's not a matter of casual racism so much as showcasing their reference points for those kinds of encounters. Because let's be real, you probably can't tell a Chinese person from a Japanese person from appearance alone. And if you think you can, then that'd be the real racism, honestly.
> 
> God's house - an old English term for hospitals. Also known as a Maison Dieu or Domus Dei.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just dropping a few notes and clarifications here. 
> 
> 1) Pacing is changed - HGW5 won't be taking place in 2 weeks time. I'm not sure how long it'll take, but it will pass the two week marker at the minimum. I'm just uncompressing the timeline while adding new interactions. Also, clearly, we won't be starting there from the get-go.
> 
> 2) Artoria isn't necessarily just Saber. From what I recall from FSN and FGO servants are summoned with skills relevant to their class (and maybe memories, but I'm uncertain on that front) and not much else. Heracles gets a huge nerf whenever he gets summoned, because dude was literally everything but a Caster in his prime. I'm choosing to apply that logic for Artoria - she's still Saber (kinda?), but she isn't "just" a Saber (sorta?). It'll make sense eventually (maybe?). 
> 
> 3) I'm following a pseudo Fate/UBW route hybrid with the potential for deviations - minor or major. A demi-route, if you will. I came up with the term myself. Absolutely. For the buildup, expect the tone to edge a bit more towards Hollow Atraxia. 
> 
> 4) I'll be limiting myself to mostly Nasuverse canon and limitations as much as possible, but I'll probably be bending some of those restrictions if it would enhance the narrative. Feel free to dislike it, but at least bring up what I didn't handle well so I can either explain my reasoning or assure you that the particular element introduced hasn't been discussed to completion yet.
> 
> 5) Rule of Cool takes precedence over canon. If I want an event to happen, and it' likely improve the narrative and/or make it cooler, I'm doing it. Might expand on some limitations along the way, but canon is just a polite suggestion in the world of fanfiction.

It was the same room, with those same indifferent walls, and the same sunset blinking readily from the corner of her window. It had to have been a fortnight - it certainly felt that way, though Artoria hadn't counted the days. She was simply grateful when that tedious, mundane cycle of inaction finally came to a halt. Emiya had stopped by, clad in the same uniform - it had to have been a uniform - he wore on what she'd believed to be the last day of her life. He'd spoken to her physician in their tongue - Ni-ho-ngo, she'd finally asked a handful of days ago - and her own incomprehension to their discussion was frustrating. 

It didn't last too long, and with some parting words from her chyrurgeons her dreadful stay had ended. The halls and people she'd passed long ago had lost the instinctive wariness they'd cultivated in her. Knowing their true purpose dissuaded a good deal of distrust - they were helping people. Saving them. As all ought to strive for. 

She'd continued walking until another foreign device confronted her with its presence - two panes of fogged glass over a damp mat. Raindrops clung to it like stubborn tears, trickling down in erratic streaks from their own weight. Emiya had tapped her shoulder upon noticing her hesitation, but the King of Knights had been too engrossed in the sight. Magecraft, perhaps. It had to have been. It was a door, she'd decided, when it parted for a man in elegant black walking through with an unflinching pace. 

Resolve then... that was all it took. The device would submit to her like it had the others. 

Artoria moved towards the imposing sight, promptly being startled as the device shifted like far too many of Merlin's tinkered toys - and she felt, in the pit of her stomach, something had gone wrong. It wouldn't shut. She'd broken it. The little light at the side wouldn't change hue, sustaining an angered red. Humid air swept through the exposure, and she'd taken to rubbing warmth into her nightgown-clad figure in response to the damp, chilly wind. 

Emiya had turned to her - or he already had, and she'd only just noticed it now. He pointed through the door, at the splashed stone steps of the hospice. "Let's go, Yamada." 

She pointed a finger under her chin, wordlessly questioning the name. 

"That's what the doctor called you." He explained, rather nervously, and she'd responded with thoughtful silence. "I'm sorry. I don't really know what to call you - even the hospital don't know anything but your injur... injuries." 

It had been a necessary decision, refusing to answer to her identity. Unsavory for a knight, unbecoming of a king, but far too much rode on her successful return from... wherever this was. Somewhere in the East, she'd gathered, and little beyond that. "Yamada it shall be." She acknowledged, uncertain why exactly they'd given her that name. 

Artoria let herself be led through the gap, privately fascinated as what must have been a magecraft contraption shut behind her. 

_It had been resolve after all, then?_

Camelot could do with such creations. A test of will - one she may subject her retainers to. Or amusement - Agravain's bafflement at maneuvering through it would have been entertaining. It might have even confused her usually dour supporter, which would be a rare sight she was unwilling to forego. 

"Please put this on now." Emiya interrupted from behind her. She turned to his request, eyeing a bundle of fabric in his grasp. Gaudy, dandelion yellow that stung to look at - far harsher than the pale, golden mane atop her head. "You might get wet o-ther-wise. Rain is very strong." 

She continued staring at the eyesore in question. "What of you, then? Would you not get just as damp as I would?" Mostly out of concern and chivalry, of course, but Artoria would be lying if she'd claimed that was the entirety of it. Wading through a deluge in armor might have been preferable to wearing that godawful coat. 

Artoria might have submitted her entire being to her subject's prosperity, but even she had some modicum of vanity, however irrelevant it usually was. 

"It's okay. I have an umbrella." He assured her, to some subdued confusion. He began walking to the side of the building, leaving the confused girl to her own thoughts.

Umbrella - it sounded vaguely edible. Artoria wondered why he would boast over such a thing. Emiya promptly returned with said "umbrella", pointing it towards the sky. It unfurled in his grasp, and he tilted it over her form. 

A parasol... he could have simply said so! 

"But please, wear the raincoat." He requested, level voice tinted with unfettered concern. It was refreshing to hear it from someone other than Lancelot, and rather overwhelming... the King of Knights swallowed her pride and did as asked of them, to more than immediate regret. 

It was not fabric. She had been mistaken. Artoria refused to believe any fabric could ever feel like that. The material clung and snagged at her bare shoulders, shimmering like glossed leather without the painful chaffing that came - so that was a boon. Likely the only one she would grant the accursed cloak. It reminded her of Avalon's glow, but devoid of the warmth, comfort, and elegance it possessed. The coat was simply bright. Pointlessly so. Irritatingly so. 

If she'd attempted to wear such attire to even the most modest of gatherings, Lady Guinevere would have had... words to say. A good deal of them, not at all kind. And perhaps it had been a necessary evil at the time, but she'd still retained some of her wife's teachings. It felt wrong going against what you've learned to be right, pettiness be damned.

Artoria resigned herself to distractions instead, looping her gaze around the unfamiliar world as Emiya led her somewhere new. Perhaps to an inn or a different hostel - one where she hadn't overstayed her welcome. The sights surrounding her were alien and memorable, and the King of Knights drank the scenery in deeply. 

So much stonework - it was absurd. Wasteful, as even their roads were paved. All of the ones she saw. She prodded a slippered foot on them just to be sure of the discovery. Course gravel, like her homeland, only moreso, and far smoother than it had any right to be. Her faithful, fallen steed Dun Stallion would have enjoyed these roads. She could imagine driving him to a gallop on the path, the air whipping at both of their manes. It would have been amazing, and sadly imagine was all she could do. 

And the lights - not a single torch in sight. Not even lamps. Like the crystals in Merlin's study, or the orbs she'd spotted through her chaotic sprint. They burned in brilliant, unseen shades, in everything - from windows to walls and even signposts. Gorgeous Blues and Brilliant Reds and Earthy Greens and far more she could identify but not name - she could practically feel Sir Ector's disappointment at the fact, and Artoria idly wondered how well her adoptive father was faring at the moment. She hoped they hadn't reported her supposed death to him quite yet - it might crush him. Yet another reason to add among the multitudes why she ought to hurry back to Brittania. 

The humid warmth punctuated the end of her pointless musings, and she found herself straying from their pace. Artoria adjusted herself to fall in line with his steady tempo - and failed at the task, knocking an unintended shoulder into her companion's side. "My apologies, Emiya." 

He balked, eyes flitting to their shared parasol, then back at her. The boy muttered some words she couldn't comprehend, quickly recomposing himself. "S-Sorry..." 

"You've nothing to apologize for." Artoria assured serenely, her words met with flustered nods. Strange. 

Or perhaps not. She spared a glance at her own figure - despite the gaudy, baggy fit of the cloak, it was unmistakably a woman's. No, a girl's - thin limbs and slight curves, toned from exertion but unmarred by time. She tightened it over her own form, reservations forgotten in place of rather confounding bashfulness. The journey continued in silence, and she'd taken to counting the pretty lights along the way. There had been perhaps a dozen of them through their route before Emiya led her to a gated mansion. 

And it was a mansion - structures within spreading a good deal into the area, dwarfing their neighbor's lodgings. Painted walls and chiseled stones proclaimed the expanse of their land. The roofs were among the most intriguing, though. Even tiles dotted the roof beautifully, curved - how novel? - in rivets, rising at the corners sharply. The property was almost... delicate. It was bizarre: resembling a church far more than mere lodgings, but it might have simply been a practice of his people. Still, it was lovely and well kept. 

So it must have been expensive. Nobility, then... or an affluent merchant, perhaps trader, at the least. Emiya didn't act it. The boy lacked the cocksure attitude, or the entitlement to attention, and even the vestiges of pride in their station that even Artoria herself could not have claimed to escape - not entirely, at least. And to possess that despite his youth... there was much to be learned in these lands. 

"Would you mind holding the umbrella?" He asked, not quite meeting her eyes. She nodded and obliged as Emiya began sifting through his outfit for the gate key. A few moments of searching yielded the item, and the two entered the estate. 

It was not empty - another had been awaiting them. Or him, most likely. A girl. Youthful, with odd, tyrian-tinted hair. She hoped the girl found the color change worthwhile: the scent of purple dye, bubbling snails sloshing about by the vat, had soured her opinion on what had once been a wonderful color. She beckoned them with a gentle wave and wide grin - was it a rule in their household? To greet everyone such? 

Apparently not. The King of Knights returned the odd, welcome gesture that hadn't been intended for her, and garnered an unwanted response that had sadly grown common to the fallen ruler with time: the girl's enthused hand drifted down to rest at her bosom, and the smile slowly but surely melted off her face. 

"Sempai." She greeted him. A title, mayhaps? Artoria committed the word down to her memory for future reference - it was only right to provide due respect to her host. He returned the gesture, and the two briefly conversed as she made a point not to pry. Not that it would have made a difference - they'd gone back to their own tongue for that.

She waited politely as their conversation came to a close, and someone else moved to usher them in. Cropped brown hair and a plain green dress, sleeved in stripped yellow that came up to her wrists. "Shirou! Everyone! Come in - I'm hungry!" 

Describing her as boisterous would not do the strange woman justice. Artoria complied in confusion, imitating the others as they stripped off their footwear at the door. She'd been wary of upsetting them upon realizing she was the only one without hosen - would it have been rude to proceed? She took a cautious step forward onto the soft mat, and then another once she realized her bare feet hadn't caused an upset, following them to a low table with pillows sprawled about loosely. 

All three accompanying her took their reprieves atop a pillow, with Emiya alone sighing deeply and slumping forward after the gesture, arms resting above the table. He must have been exhausted indeed, walking all the way to their abode on top of whatever duties he must have kept to in the day. Artoria continued emulating their actions, pleasantly surprised by how welcoming the cushion was - she could feel herself slowly sinking into the soft downy. 

"Sakura, Taiga, this is Yamada." Emiya introduced, and she gave a short, courteous bow to them at the false name. "Please help her feel welcome." 

"Of course! You'll be calling me big sis in no time!" The one she'd assumed to be the "Taiga" in question practically bellowed, eyes shut from an impressively-wide grin. Her hand shot up with the gesture, thumb pointing into the ceiling. Approval, or willingness to fight - either interpretation seemed possible. Warriors almost always possessed a certain instinctive restlessness even at ease, and Taiga's enthusiasm easily doubled for that meaning. 

A nod from the girl of violet hair - meek, reserved, and most likely disquieted from her presence. Artoria glanced at her to convey some semblance of apology for her intrusion, only for - Sakura, was it?- to turn her gaze away and towards the wall. It had been a long while since the King of Knights had experienced such flagrant disrespect, but there was no need to act on it. There had been no other witnesses to the subdued exchange, and Artoria had gradually gained the understanding that she might have been more an unwelcome visitor than merely an unexpected one. 

_I apologize deeply for the intrusion, child. I've simply no choice on the matter._

"Shirou! Food! Now!" Taiga ordered, cheerful air obscuring the seriousness of her demands. "And the good tea cakes - We've got a guest over!" 

Emiya mumbled something in reply - indeterminable, but likely insulting for how Taiga's eyes shot open. "That's so mean of you! Shirou!" The older girl half-complained, half-bawled. In comparison to her rather somber court proceedings, the animated scene was more than a tad bizarre. "I didn't touch any of them!" 

Emiya hadn't turned his head to the sulky girl - woman? damsel? - but incredulity rolled off him in sweeping waves. The boy must have rolled his eyes, Artoria was certain, despite facing away from the room, hunched over a cabinet and occupied with his search. "Where did you pack the curry rice, Sakura?" 

She answered, and the search ended quickly. Artoria had long since yielded attempting to understand what was being spoken at that point. Instead, she settled to wait patiently for whatever was to come. It was a bit of a challenge to maintain... what with her companions failing to sneak glances of her resting form. 

Taiga's attempts had been blatant - roving and cautious, hinted with light suspicion that evaporated upon being noticed. She'd met the older woman's eyes, and Taiga had simply laughed her own wariness off and apologized for "accidentally" staring. 

Sakura had been more controlled in her attempts, though not as discrete as she'd believed herself to be. She'd interrupted herself far too often, and the girl's purple eyes - fascinating - flicked sharply like chiming bells, avoiding the king's glance in unnaturally obvious ways. 

It might have been nothing at all, as Artoria's mane was a rarity even in her homelands, reserved mostly for the nobility. In this land of Japan - she'd asked, to little personal revelation on the name - she hadn't spotted so much as a speck of gilded hair among the many she'd passed. 

Indeed it must be so. She was a very obvious foreigner found in suspect conditions and claiming ignorance - who wouldn't be curious, at the least? And no one knew of her true identity, so dwelling on such uncomfortable matters were of little use. There would be time to do upon her return. Perhaps not enough, but certainly more than now. 

She ignored the two, for lack of a better word. As politely as possible, only turning to meet them when their stares had began to edge towards unacceptable thresholds of boldness. Fortunately, it hadn't lasted long, and Emiya returned with a pile of stacked plates. They shined from polish but did not glimmer. Interesting, but nowhere close to the contents hefted on them. Rice - a delicacy, rare and cultivated far into the lands that had been Rome, once upon a time. It had been months, perhaps, since she'd sampled such, what with the war demanding different priorities. Brown sauce slathered the warm grain, pungent and herbaceous - a far cry from the rich, hearty sauces that had been their land's norm. A viand of meat steamed gently from the side - Pork, judging from the resistance when she poked it with their utensil. It crackled and crunched and popped from her prodding, lathered in some strange mixture unknown to her lands. 

It smelled heavenly, and the glutton-who'd-never-admit-to-such had privately felt half-starved by the meager proportions granted during her stay in the hostel. But she was a king before she was a guest - a starving king, but a king nonetheless. She repeated the word in her heard relentlessly as a reminder to restrain her baser urges, focusing instead to pay heed to her hosts for the evening. To act accordingly to their customs, and follow their actions to the minute details. 

They sandwiched - Good Lord she was starving - their cutlery between their palms, which she emulated to the best of her estimate. Perhaps saying grace for their meal?

No complaints so far, so she must have been doing decently so far. That or they hadn't been paying attention to her, though that possibility unnecessarily wounded her pride and was subsequently not worth the dignity of being entertained. 

Then the three of them, in tandem: "Itadakimasu." And rested their utensils... chopsticks, they called them... between their thumb and first finger and moved to eat. 

Artoria repeated the phrase and gesture with all the regality she could muster. Which was quite a lot, mind you - she had simply failed in other matters. 

Such as pronunciation. The King of Knights was fairly certain she'd butchered the word beyond recognition - it felt wrong even leaving her unacquainted lips. Three pairs of eyes stared at her in disbelief, and she'd petulantly avoided meeting any of them, moving to the meal they'd kindly provided her.

And failed in that endeavor as well. Some of her strength still escaped her... that was absolutely the reason, and nothing more. Artoria had, in a moment of weakness - not clumsiness in the slightest - fumbled her grip on the polished pair of sticks. They clattered onto the pillowed mats far louder than they had any right to. She picked up the fall chopstick and continued on as if nothing of note had gone wrong. And nothing did, as far as their responses would ever reveal. Stray befuddlement at the incident gave way to quiet acceptance. Just the way she liked it. 

She still lacked the deftness to maneuver them, loathe as she was to admit it. So she didn't. An obvious solution for a simple problem. 

And if it came with its own set of issues in kind, then so be it. 

Eating was never a chore to her, but her current meal was certainly more... challenging, yes, then what she'd been used to. The warm rice had warm, wonderful texture... whenever she could clump together more than a few grains. The sauce was curiously exotic whenever she could gather more than a few droplets before they returned to the plate. The meat was seasoned to perfection and odd, but compellingly crisp... if only she could actually grasp a cut of it properly with her suddenly-inept digits. 

_This is humiliating._

Like her youth all over again, except without Sir Ector to chide her for using her hands out of impatience. Or her brother Kay to suffer the treatment alongside her. 

She poked at the pork cut innocuously, slowly but surely spearing the meat on the damnable paired chopsticks. Emiya must have noticed - he'd gotten up to leave their dining area. Artoria had been somewhat willing to do very much the same, though her hunger had, as per usual, smothered her embarrassment into silence. It was good food - so what if she had to eat it slower than she'd ever had to before? 

That was a lie. The meal beckoned to her to improve her pace, and the only thing stopping her from obliging was capability. She hungered more the longer it took - truly a vicious and unforgiving cycle to subject one to...

A hand tapped at her shoulder, and she'd looked up to her left. More familiar tools rested in Emiya's hand, and his face bore a nervous smile. 

"I... er... forgot about, yes." He supplied and stopped, turning to Taiga for assistance. 

"What my ward-slash-younger-brother meant to say was he forgot about the difference in utensils." The older woman explained, standing up to nudge him in the side. "He still has a lot to learn about dealing with guests - he can't even treat Sakura and I right, and we've been here for years!" 

Emiya complained indecipherably again, and Taiga continued her rhetoric rather than bawl as she had previously done. "Still, that's no excuse - and you shouldn't be talking like that in front of guests, Shirou! It's rude... try it in English. I taught you better than that." 

"You're... right." He apologized, resting his palms on the table. "I'm sorry, er... Yamada." 

"You've nothing to apologize for." Artoria reminded, still uncomfortable with her assigned name despite the necessity. "it's my fault for not understanding the language." 

"No it's not, Yamada. Yamada... do you have a first name?" Taiga transitioned to, losing her conversation partner for a moment. 

"Hanako." It truly didn't suit her, no matter how many times she repeated it in her head. 

"I think I'll go with Hanako, then." Taiga decided. "Hanako. Shirou will be speaking to you in English from this point on." 

The tone brokered no argument, and Emiya wisely didn't try his luck. The redheaded boy simply nodded in acquiescence. 

"And you, Sakura... you should have picked up a thing or too from such a great teacher like me!" 

The young girl nodded. Taiga merely shook her head. "Out loud, girl!" 

"Y-Yes." It came soft and stilted, though the poor thing was clearly trying her best. Taiga smacked the girl's back casually, and Sakura yelped from the abrupt contact. 

"You know, Hanako..." Taiga began, rocking Sakura about the shoulders lightly - the girl swayed with the motions gently, and it was safe to assume not entirely willingly. "This girl - this young lady, Shirou - cooked the Pork Tonkatsu for this evening... because someone was late letting us know he'd be late... yeah, yeah, I know, you had good reasons..." She brushed off Emiya's protests. 

"Truly? You're a wonderful cook, Sakura." She praised. The girl nodded at her quietly, hands folded and fingers interlaced nervously. "T-Thank you, Hanako." 

"Now that we're all introduced properly... great!" A voice she'd grown rather fond of quickly interrupted. Taiga was larger than life, and refreshingly not in the way she or her knights had been. There was a certain charm to her lackadaisical approach. One that would be unsuited to anyone but her. "Now let's let her eat - poor Hanako's been struggling with the chopsticks the entire time!" 

Artoria impulsively thought to protest, then bit back a retort that would only be proven wrong. She bowed her head briefly instead. "It is true I am unfamiliar with your ways." 

"Give it time - even Kerry had to take a bit to adjust here!" 

"Kerry?" 

Taiga grinned - a wide one, ear to ear. It looked different from the cocky, playful one's she'd worn previously. It was warm and nostalgic and perhaps a bit longing. "Shirou's father. My tutor in English - it's why I can keep up with even native speakers like you, hehe..." 

"I see." Artoria replied in kind, occupied by the almost pained grimace that had sprouted on Emiya's face. 

"So don't worry! You'll figure out the basics in a couple of weeks - you've got us to help, after all!" Taiga encouraged, voice enthused and promising. She gestured to the others, who returned their own simple acknowledgements to the oath. If they meant what they said - and Artoria had, so far, found no reason to doubt them - then her hosts were too kind. Not that she would protest it, by any means. A smile snaked across her usually stoic face, and she'd let it rest there indulgently. 

"Now eat! Food's getting cold. I'll finish whatever you don't." Taiga assured in innocent ignorance - that doubtlessly wouldn't come to pass. "Sakura wouldn't be happy if you wasted her yummy food, after all." 

She spared a glance at said girl. Sakura didn't seem particularly bothered by that possibility. They ate in relative silence, and the King of Knights properly savored the first meal she'd found to her taste in a good while. 

The quality was superb, though she found the meal lacked in proportion. This was a common plight plaguing Artoria's life. She finished her meal first, and retained her composure to the best of her ability. It would be unseemly of her to gawk at their own as-yet-unfinished meals. Still steaming, aromatic, and heaped... 

Artoria understood that she must have failed that task, at some point. Wordlessly, Emiya stood up from her right, picking up her emptied plate, and set back to their kitchen to spoon seconds for their guest. He returned quickly - not quickly enough, in Artoria's humble opinion - and set it before the famished, thankful king. 

She hesitated before indulging in her meal, quietly placing her utensils by the plate. Words of gratitude would have been the least she could offer for their generosity. 

"Thank you, Emiya-" No, that didn't feel right. It seemed far too casual. Artoria paused in thought, fortunately recalling the word for his title. "Sempai." 

Regret was a familiar feeling to the King of Knights, but never before had it come so immediately. Their quaint, little evening shifting into something she'd been all too familiar with - a lucid, nebulous calm that always beget tumultuous storms. The world seemed to choke on its breath, suffocating what had been a somewhat welcoming room. 

Emiya had tilted his head, red hair ruffling off to the side. Confusion shimmered transparently in his lost, brown eyes. 

Sakura had fallen into a speckled silence, staring so low onto the table Artoria could no not spot her purple glower - and it had to have been a glower. 

Artoria cleared her throat, the gesture practiced through years of tending to and arbitrating hundreds of banquets worth of squabbling nobles. It had always settled whatever petty conflicts loomed over such pointless evenings, and had at least a slim chance of dispelling... whatever this was. 

"Ah. Ha. Ha." Taiga cackled, looming gaze wavering between present company. "Hanako, darling... er..." 

_Not at all ominous._

"Persimmons!" The stripped lady yelled, pointedly shifting the soured mood. 

"Persimmons?" 

"Yes - I forgot them, Nnnnnoooooo..." Taiga slowly, dissonantly lamented - she must have been enjoying herself, given the pointed smirk she failed to fully conceal. Or trying too - the smirk seemed to be cracking. "Shirou? Be a dear and grab them off my bike? And do help him out, Sakura. It might be a bit too heavy for my dear little brother... they should be nearby if you can't find them strapped to the seat, okay?" 

Emiya wandered off towards the exit, mumbling what Artoria could best assume to be obscenities from the tone. Sakura followed him dutifully, practically hopping to a stand and nearly sprinted, purple hair whipping around her shoulder beautifully. 

"Thank you! Both of you!" A warm wave and spoken gratuity sent them off to their task, and Emiya's older sister turned to Artoria in a very concerning way. The King of Knights met Taiga's gaze, anxious to discover what sacred tenants she'd ignorantly violated.

"Geez, Hanakooooo... don't scare me like that!" A hand swatted her shoulder - was it a custom of their people? She'd permit it for the moment. 

"I apologize for any offense I've caused." Came the mechanical apology, though she'd tried to pour as much true mournfulness in her tone as possible. 

"No, nothing like that... just, ugh." She stopped, paused, then drummed her fingers on the table loudly. "Do you know what that word means?" 

"A title?" Artoria supplied uncertainly, before repeating the reply with conviction better suited to her station. "A title." 

"Well, yes..." Taiga admitted slowly, eyes boring into the wall. Presumably in search of a proper response. "In a way. But not - it's more a... pet name? Sakura uses it that way. Probably. I don't think she was ever expecting anyone else to as well!" 

"Then I have infringed on her privileges?" 

"No need to be so formal, geez... but maybe it would be best for you to stick to our given names. For the time being, at least." 

"I see. I appreciate the information, Taiga." Artoria thanked with a nod. "Along with your timely intervention on my error." 

"Now, now, no need to thank me, young lady!" Taiga laughed off, eyes shut with the expression. Artoria made to protest out of instinct, halting with realization. Without her armor, away from her steed, and rendered near immutable by Caliburn and eventually Avalon, it was a sensible conclusion for most to make. 

It was bothersome, but with no feasible options to dispute the assumption the King of Knights bore the indignity quietly. 

"Still, you've my gratitude, Taiga. All of you." 

"Do you have any family here?" Taiga probed, eyes genuinely interested. Or concerned. The difference between the two had long since faded through her tenure as a ruler. "Friends? Schoolmates?" 

"No. I'm afraid not." Artoria responded, careful not to reveal anything damning, as much as she owed them such. There would be time for proper recompense later. 

"I see. That is... concerning." It came with undeserved sympathy - deception was unbecoming of knight, much less their king. Loathsomeness crept into her being with the needed, yet frustrating compromise. 

"Do you have a place to stay the night, Hanako?" Now this must be concern - unmistakably so. Taiga's tone had taken a more motherly tone. Or at least, what Artoria had imagined it to be. Her own experience on what that might have entailed had been rather lacking. At the very least, it was consideration on her account. Not at all uncommon - what with her Round Table's open inquiries to her well being - but likely the first dredges of it she could entertain away from the throne. 

She shook her head. Taiga seemed unhappy with the response. The older girl likely thought of her as some silly, untested child who knew no better of the world. 

"You've nothing to concern yourself with. Finding a suitable clearing for a night's rest is more than feasible." She explained, growing slightly irked at the look of skepticism leveled at her assurances. "I've done it plenty of times before. This will be no different." 

"But a kid like you shouldn't be living like that. That's just unacceptable. And you'll get arrested if you try that, to boot!" 

"Why would I be arrested, Taiga?" 

"It's illegal to sleep in parks. They'll haul you off to jail if you try that." 

That seemed needlessly pointless and rather callous of their own rulers. Who even needed all the land like that? Hunting was a different discussion altogether... to deny a traveler even a night's rest on their own terms... It reeked of bad governance. 

"Why? Where do wanderers sleep, then?" 

"In hotels, silly." 

"Hotels?" 

"Of course hotels!" Taiga repeated, as if were the most obvious thing in the world. It very well might have been, though the word was lost on her. "And maybe the church, if you're feeling really desperate and completely broke." 

_Hotels... broke..._

It was likely English, unless the older woman was fond of peppering her speech with loan words. She would have someone translate the odd words upon her return. 

"The church, you say?" Likely of a different faith, but the one tenant shared between every instance was respite for the weary. Perhaps they would entertain her plight. 

"Yeah, you look the type... sorry, was that wrong of me to assume?" Artoria shook her head. "Good, good. Are you Christian, then?" 

"Yes, though it has been a long while since I've prayed." 

"... I can understand why that might be." Taiga said. Strangely forlorn - it was such a departure from her previous self, giving Artoria pause. "Sorry, sorry. Shirou told me it would be alright for you to stay a while. At least until you get back on your feet, so to speak." 

"I can't hope to infringe any more on your hospitality." 

"If you don't, Shirou will worry. And if Shirou worries then I'll worry." Taiga explained plainly, hands resting at her hips. Her expression softened, and she exhaled slowly. "Please don't make him worry. He's a good kid." 

"Emiya is a child?" 

"To me, always... hehe." Taiga giggled before continuing. "But anyways, please stay the night. You're welcome here for the moment. And I'd like to ask something of you, beyond just staying over." 

"Of course. Anything within my power." 

"You're a strange girl, you know that, Hanako?" 

"I suppose I am." Artoria answered to the borrowed name neutrally.

"In that case, I'd like you to stay up for a conversation. Just a bit later than what you might be used to - growing girl and all." The King of Knights bit her tongue back. "I just have some things I'd like to know. You're free not to answer the ones that make you uncomfortable, and I'll do my best not to pry." 

Suspicion... no, else they'd have simply turned her over the remnant's of Mordred's - no, Morgan's - forces. Either as a wounded king or a cold corpse. So this must have been something else entirely, = both more than adequate and well within her limitations. "Of course. I'll gladly answer whatever I can, though I fear I have little to truly say." 

Her duties to the kingdom bound stronger than any mere gaeas ever could. Taiga nodded understandingly. 

"That's alright, that's alright. Just wait for later, okay? Those two ought to be showing you to the guest room after our meal." Artoria nodded in understanding, turning to the final remnants of her dinner. "Just let them do their thing, and I'll see you later - need to apologize to them for misplacing those fruits."

"How long have they been searching?" 

"A while, I think. Actually I'm kind of surprised how determined those two are looking for the imaginary!" Taiga enthused, immediately dropping the mood in curious contemplation. "Though I doubt Sakura minds it at all... hehe." 

And it had finally set in - what exactly had soured the mood for the evening. How could she have been so oblivious? "I can understand why the poor girl had been upset with me now." 

"Took you long enough, blondie..." Taiga grinned playfully, rousing from her pillow and stretching long arms high behind her head. "That's my cue to help them out with the pointless search. Wish me luck, and I expect to be seeing you later." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chyrurgeons - surgeons (how nobility referred to them in old Europe)
> 
> Yamada Taro/Hanako - think of them as the equivalents for John/Jane Doe.
> 
> Sharing an umbrella is also a pretty hard couple thing in Japan. And while Shirou tends to be somewhat dense, I don't think he'd be stereotypical unrealistic in that regard. Well-meaning enough to do things like that without batting an eye, but eventually noticing the implications after a bit of time and thought. 
> 
> Also, Senpai and Sempai are actually correct - the former is proper spelling, while the latter is pronunciation. Go figure. I went with the latter because she's hearing it by ear and approximating from sound, versus reading it properly.
> 
> Tyrian - The original purple dye. Made from boiled snails, and smelled absolutely atrocious.
> 
> Hosen - stockings/socks
> 
> Lastly, personal headcanon for Taiga (which I think HA corroborates with) is she's being deliberately ditsy/playful on the Emiya family's account, given how both of them were kind of broken individuals. She seems the type who'd create a pleasant, balanced atmosphere in an attempt to look after them. You can kind of see Taiga's more subdued side during some of the side accounts in HA, where she's almost melancholic recalling how it used to be when Kerry was alive, while also assuring Shirou she'd always be there to support him.


	4. Chapter 4

The four of them enjoyed a good bit of leisure together, lost in idle chatter Artoria could barely follow: half of their words were beyond her, and even Taiga had ceased to remind the young pair of their guest's unfamiliarity, far too engrossed in whatever had caught all their fancy.

The King of Knights nodded along, flitting the occasional reassuringly confident smile whenever she deemed it suited. Her hosts seemed to be having a pleasant evening, despite her intrusion to their dinner table. It would have been remiss of her, regardless of pride, to demand even more of them. That was not to say it did not irk her, at least slightly. But Artoria chose to overlook her own impulses, focusing on similar experiences to this. It vaguely reminded her of Lancelot, who'd oft lapsed into fits of frantic French when taken aback, to Guinevere's muted bemusement. Or Gawain, who'd very much done the same when pressed in rather jarring Gaelic - a very dissonant tongue to hear from the soft-featured knight. 

A sharp buzz permeated the residence, interrupting the ambiance. Then another. Then another.

The sound grew tiresome quickly, and fortunately Emiya had roused to accommodate their persistent (second) guest, while Sakura had began working to smooth her crinkled skirt. Taiga seemed to be rather taken with the little biscuits they'd set with some sort of herbal decoctions - she'd even taken to swiping the untouched remnants on Emiya's platter. Artoria minded herself despite the temptation towards decadence, sipping at the pungent brew provided quietly and locking her gaze at the entrance. 

Another boy, clad in the same dull brown Emiya wore, greeted them - though the term seemed delusive to use. Purple hair like Sakura's - the shade of a welling bruise - with neither the length nor grace, messily parted and curling like braids of wilted seaweed. He'd entered the abode haughtily, boldly stepping without shedding his shoes. 

"Sakura-" Was all she could understand from what was said. There was a conversation, no doubt, and it must have bloomed into an argument judging from the developing heat in the exchange. Artoria tuned it all out, focusing instead on those involved - they were far easier to interpret. She turned to the girl across her. 

Hesitant. Perhaps frozen. No, she was moving - fidgeting. Fingers steepling and unsteepling, drifting under the table once their master had caught on to Artoria's scrutiny. She looked away, and the girl mirrored her gesture as far as she sensibly could. Unsettled then... it didn't take much thought to conclude some sort of uncomfortable relationship between her and their rude gatecrasher - poor girl was shaken, but refused to be show her weakness. It was a respectable attempt, and Artoria obliged her discretion and set her gaze on Taiga's expressions. 

Wary - rightly so. She was more astute than Artoria had initially given her credit for. Taiga had taken to crossing her arms to manage her soured mood, though the woman's fingers drummed disquietingly over her sleeves. It seemed she was also paying attention the discussion, and it seemingly hadn't been a pleasant one to overhear. 

_Footsteps. Obnoxious and louder than needed. Like a nobleman introducing their firstborn at a banquet... a mewling, upstart kitten believing itself a lion._

She'd tried her best at being a fair and just king, and despite everything that had happened Artoria still maintained the fault of her consequences were not borne of capriciousness. But there were always some subjects, some rivals, or simply some idiots who practically clamored for a thrashing. The urge was kept in check, but it was there. 

She kept the invader in eyeshot, if only to search for a reason - any at all - to act on her instincts. None came, unfortunately, and he'd taken to speak to his kin with a tone few would approve of. Sakura responded in silence, then a shallow bob of her head. A hand grasped at Sakura's arm, ostensibly to aid her slow and struggling motions. 

But Artoria had known better. It was a wrenching grip, pinching and twisted. Not debilitating, but painful, and always wholly unnecessary. She'd seen the very same action subjected to enemy soldiers captured after particularly grueling battles, and had personally chastised anyone who'd done so for their pettiness and cruelty. The compulsion to do so again was only hampered by inconvenient awareness - the loathsome thing likely wouldn't understand a word she said. 

The purple-haired boy glanced at her, and the temptation to scrub the skin of her own body grew with the motion. It lasted but a fraction of a moment, but the lecherous intent had been made abundantly clear. Artoria began to seriously ponder acting on her impulses - after all, he wasn't a guest in the household. He'd invited himself in, disrespected their ways, and even taken someone who frankly belonged more with them than wherever he was returning to... and she stopped pondering. It would reflect badly on her hosts if she acted like such on their grounds, and maneuvering such delicate situations had never been her forte - Agravain had always been the one mitigating that particular weakness of hers. Artoria merely, and privately, resolved to aid them if either of the three acted of their own volition. She sincerely hoped they would. 

But no, that wouldn't come to pass. The two - siblings, she imaged? - left, one far more willing than the other, taking the amiable, if somewhat awkward, mood along with her. Time passed quicker than it had, and Emiya had asked her to follow him for the moment, leading her down a winding corridor and into what she'd assumed to be her lodgings. 

Her actions were not shameless, but a modicum of the dour state burrowed in her thoughts nevertheless. This was simply sacred hospitality: kindness to the weary and the lost. A way of the world to respect and be respected by. But it felt like far too much of an encroachment. Artoria had been well aware of how skewed her own views on such would be, given her lack of experience on the matter. Truly, she'd hoped to have retained that inexperience through the duration of her reign. 

A roof over her head. A soft bedroll. A night of sleep on a stomach filled with good fare. How long had it been? She'd thanked him for his kindness yet again, and he'd bashfully accepted her appreciation. Artoria found it concerning - his naivety would have him taken advantage of by the unscrupulous. She wondered if she fell under that banner as well, then dispelled the irrelevant thought with little fanfare. She paid her debts, no matter how long they'd take. 

Emiya had left for his own quarters, and the King of Knights rested in silence. 

Night came far early than she'd ever been accustomed to, and Artoria's thoughts still rattled in her skull despite the days spent meditating upon them. Days passed differently here - they must. Dusk had already set in the skyline, yet the familiar fatigue had yet to wrack her body. It had been difficult to note then, in her solitude, trapped betwixt those four dull walls for what felt akin to eternity. She'd wished nothing more than to leave those stifling walls behind. 

Perhaps God had heard her. She'd gotten her wish, which came with its own set of regrets. 

The new walls were thin as sheaves of parchment, or perhaps moreso. A gentle prodding revealed they were exactly that. Decorative, serving little in regards for protection. The walls would splinter and tear with the slightest aggravation, even without her mana burst to empower her strength. Truly, even Gwenyvere could have torn the partitions asunder, if properly enticed. Though she might have appreciated the quaint charm of them first, given her interests. 

As a wary knight fresh and tender from their wounds, the fortifications proved abhorrent. She couldn't even trust them to handle her backside, were she to lean against them. What more against the multitudes likely to act first and ponder never? Artoria edged to the center of the room, by the bedroll far too comfortable to have been called such. She settled her knees on the mattress, readily awaiting Taiga's brief company. 

<\- ->

"-nako... Han... londie!" 

The King of Knights jumped to their feet. Regally, of course. Gracefully. Deliberately. Verily. 

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Taiga asked, to her credit looking slightly apologetic. "Thought you were just sitting around and meditating." 

"I had been." Artoria claimed quickly, which made it true. "It is fine. I've been awaiting you since I was escorted here." 

"It's okay for you to be bit casual, okay?" Taiga reminded gently, laughing at... herself, or her. Possibly both of them. "I'm an English teacher, but this isn't my first language. Try to remember that, right? Or you'll start making me feel real unqualified for my job." 

"Understood. I apologize." 

"No need for you to apologize." She refuted, eyes hardening in faux-annoyance. Any doubt was assuaged by the indulgent smile across her lips. "I'd just like you to talk. Is that okay with you, blondie?" 

"Of course." She owed them the opportunity, at the least. Even if there was precious little to be said. 

Taiga seemed somewhat sated by the reply, and she nodded back, settling on her knees fixed towards her and eyes fixed. "Let's start with the name, okay?" 

Artoria nodded, maintaining her silence under durress. Misplaced pride had already been insistent on not concealing her identity for a long while now. 

"Hanako Yamada isn't a real name. At least, not this time." Taiga stated plainly, elaborating once the statement bore no verbose responses. "It's like John Doe, or Jane Doe. Do you know what I mean?" 

"Yes." Artoria lied. It had, sadly enough, become rather easy to accomplish. She hoped the habit wouldn't carry over upon return. 

"Good." Taiga acknowledged, and a brief bout of apprehension tugged at the King of Knights. "May I ask why you didn't give the doctors your actual name during your ten day stay?"

"I... do not have one." No, it would not do. "At least, not one I can recall." 

It was barefaced deception, and a rather absurd one at that. A name was more than a mere title - it encompassed oneself. Those without were pitiful and deprived... lost from her home, betrayed and nearly butchered by her subjects, and dependent on the charity of strangers, there really wasn't much different between them and herself. The thought brought her no comfort, but it assuaged some of the repugnance to the claim. 

Taiga simply nodded earnestly, slowly. Her expression had turned somber, and that gave her pause - how often an occurrence were such encounters in their country? Their lands seemed thriving enough, insomuch as Artoria could note. They might have thought her a fleeing refugee then, and given how delirious she'd been, strewn with the sacked corpses, it was not an unreasonable conclusion. Perhaps they'd done so before, to others in need. It would explain their experience tending to her. 

"I see." She replied to the king in kind. "Would it bother you if I called you blondie in the meantime? Using that name feels wrong." 

Artoria made her acceptance of those terms clear and verbose. 

"You're not from here, that's for sure." 

Artoria nodded quickly. "No, I am not." 

"May I ask where? USA, UK, maybe Germany?" She supplied helpfully, though the words meant precious little. Provinces, she'd surmised them to be, though unfamiliarity kept them irrelevant. "Blond hair isn't really common here, unless you bleached yours..." 

"I came from the west." Which was all she could safely admit to for the time being. "That is all I know of myself. I apologize." 

"It's okay, it's alright." Soothing. Artoria's shoulders slacked of their own volition. The older woman leaned back, head lightly tilted and disconcertingly inquisitive. "So how did you wind up here? All alone, nameless, and bleeding in the alley of a garbage dump?" 

"I... do not know." The King of Knights confessed, trying to meet the skeptical gaze head on. 

"Were you taken?" 

"In a manner. I'm afraid I know little else beyond that." It had been a warped blur, as if the world had been rolled and folded like damp parchment. Nothing but a haze of melted memories, clinging and overlapping and amounting to nothing sensible. She still tried to make explain it, if only for her companion's sake. "It was dark and I was alone." 

"I can imagine... poor thing." She muttered in response, voice softened and pitiful. It was exasperating as usual, and another reminder why she'd always resigned to conduct herself in full battle regalia as often as possible - less patronizing from those ignorant of her station. "And to be left bleeding in an alleyway, alone..." 

"I would have perished." 

"I don't know how you can say that so calmly." 

Artoria wasn't convinced she had - death was not a dear, expectant friend to her. Not yet, when there was still so much to be done. She abstained from correcting her. 

"How old are you?" Taiga continued, eyeing her with tentative disgust... no, not her. Someone else, in her own thoughts. There was loathing towards an unknown entity. Perhaps Taiga had indeed seen her as little but a refugee, and the animosity had been directed to whoever had reduced her to such a sorry state. It was the only deduction she could fathom that stood up to scrutiny.

"Fifteen... Sixteen..." Artoria paused, genuinely muddled regarding her true age. She'd been a fresh-faced maiden when she'd drawn Caliburn, and individual years shed their substance as more and more burdens assailed her reign. "I'm uncertain, myself. There were more pressing concerns at the time." 

"I can imagine..." The expression that had taken Taiga's features extolled the fact it hadn't been a pleasant depiction. Her posture seemed to stiffen at whatever images she'd conjured of Artoria's tale. "But you're safe now, at least. I'm glad." 

"Thanks to Emiya and yourself." Artoria reminded her. 

"But you shouldn't have ended up like that in the first place... on our territory, no less..." Taiga trailed off quietly, moving to speak and silencing herself abruptly. 

"Taiga?" Artoria coaxed, wary at how silently troubled her companion had gradually become through their discussion. 

"You're just... so young to go through all of this. God, your family, I can't even begin-" 

She stopped speaking, settling into a fuming, outraged silence that left Artoria bewildered. "Taiga?" She repeated, and managed to garner her attention briefly. 

"Just... some young, pretty, exotic foreign teenage girl who can't speak a word of Japanese taken from her home and dumped in some corner to bleed out. Would have bled out - doctor's said it was a miracle for you to have held out for so long..." 

She held her tongue as Taiga continued, anxious to learn how sordid her state had been when she'd been found.

"Malnourished and stabbed in the gut, shaking from exposure and left to lay on filth. What kind of animals would do that to a child! To rob them of a home and leave them to rot like roadkill. Have they... have they taken advantage of you?" 

Recognition set in with the King of Knights. Finally, her tirade had begun to make sense - Taiga had thought her a slave. Or perhaps something treated more unspeakably than even that. Artoria had surrendered her gender in the name of kingship, but there were some sympathies one could never shed. She'd matched Taiga's previous outrage, face set in hard lines and arms wound tightly around herself in impotent fury. 

"I'm... I shouldn't have asked that." Taiga apologized, relinquishing her affronted edge. Artoria matched her in kind, though the meaning behind it eluded her. "Don't answer. I'm sorry. I got caught up. I shouldn't have pried."

"It is alright. You've not offended me." 

"I'm just no good at this stuff. Students come to me all the time with problems, and I just can't let them be. Even if it's about things I really shouldn't continue with." 

Students? So Taiga was a teacher then? How interesting and enviable. The King of Knights' own hands were tied on reforming those restrictions, as much as she'd have preferred being able to do so. She was king, which meant she was but a king, and any action towards those alterations to centuries of dogma would have her and her court branded as heretics. They'd have triumphed and parted against them should the conflict have arisen, but it would have come at a cost to her kingdom not worth paying. 

Still, it was achievable, and was mayhaps simply a matter of time and patience. Artoria found herself with a rare smile twisting her mouth - something to look forward to. A remote possibility but a possibility nonetheless, to be accommodated once the civil war had been stymied. 

"I'm sure you are an excellent teacher and confidant, Taiga. You seem to be truly engrossed in your efforts." 

"Awww, shucks, blondie. That's real nice of you to say." The older woman practically cooed from appreciation. "I just can't stop thinking about stuff like earlier, and how I might not be exactly successful even if I do mean well." 

_The deplorable boy with a head of shredded seaweed._

She repeated her thought for lack of a better description, and Taiga let out a rich laugh that lacked the mocking undertones that riddled her usual dealings. "Yes, Shinji, the seaweed head. He isn't treating his sister very well, and that's a rolling understatement." 

"He was hurting her." Sakura hadn't done a thing to earn it. It was simple, brutish, and abhorrent. 

"He was." 

"Should I have stopped him, Taiga?" Of course she should have - the need to ask was utter lunacy, save for these very hampering circumstance. 

"Maybe. I should have, too. I really ought to." 

"Then why hadn't we?" 

"I'm not sure how issues like that are handled in wherever you're from." Taiga explained. "But here, those matters are private, as much as they shouldn't be. What I can do is limited as a teacher and friend. Believe me, I'd be more than willing to educate him about that, but it'll only make matters worse." 

"How could they be worse?" Artoria asked, innocently. In hindsight, the reason should have been blatant. 

"Sakura likes spending her evenings here with us. She's happy and safe and among friends, but that's only because their family allows it. If you or I or Shirou did anything to challenge that, her treatment might improve here, but not for long. And she'd end up spending more time there, in their home, with people like Shinji and people who happen to be okay with people like Shinji treating her like that. I can't help her like this, and she won't let me, so all I can really do is smile and laugh and make sure she enjoys every second of her time here." 

"That must be burdensome to bear." 

"It can be. It is. I'm just glad it's just mine - I can handle it pretty well, hehe." A note of sadness laced her the final words, simmering into nothingness as she laughed the topic away. "I'd appreciate you not telling Shirou this. Who knows how he'd act - though part of me thinks he's at least somewhat aware of it." 

"Somewhat aware? Then why is he not acting upon it?" 

"It's not that simple." Taiga stated, before correcting herself. "No, it might be simple, but it isn't obvious."

"Wherein lies the difference?" 

"Well, take yourself as an example. Finding someone hurt in the streets and bringing them somewhere they can be taken care of would be both." Artoria nodded along with the sentiment, paying rapt attention to the next point of contrast. "This is a bit difficult. Shirou is friends with both of them, as strange as that might seem. He doesn't have much experience on how siblings work. Neither of the siblings are complaining about what's happening - or rather Sakura chooses not to, so it won't set in for him. Short of a bruise or something else irrefutably obvious, I doubt it ever will." 

"I see." There were few things appropriate enough to respond with, and the older woman had taken herself somewhere quietly subdued. "I am humbled you would trust me with such information." 

"Nah, don't be, blondie - hehe..." Taiga grinned back, though it seemed rather brittle. Artoria kept that to herself. "Just venting a bit, I guess. Can't talk about that with anyone else in this house, so I'd even take a stranger's shoulder - even if some of the words you use still make my head spin. But I guess I really wanted to talk about it too, and it's not like I have to worry about you telling someone else..." 

"I'm glad to have aided you, Taiga. Irregardless of that." 

"Thank you, really." Taiga said, recovering a semblance of her casual ease - it glinted off her slowly easing smile. "It's best I leave you to it, then. I've got classes tomorrow morning. Just try to recover best you can, and we'll be well on our way to sorting your situation out." 

Artoria agreed, and made her approval apparent quietly. Taiga departed in relative silence, slowly sliding the thin walled doors as an implicit farewell for the night. 

The King of Knights did as she was requested, curling snugly over the mattress and draping pale sheets over her figure. Between the thin walls, her bedroll situated on the floor, and the modest garments she'd been provided, Artoria had felt rather exposed in her quarters. Sleep never came easily at the best of days, and this was far from those golden, ever-distant memories. But she needed to sleep - it need not be restful, so long as it sated the body. And she did so, shutting out her thoughts and the world that tainted them, and drifted towards the dreamless oblivion she'd long grown acquainted to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, on the off-chance I may come off as racist, sexist, and a lot of other things that come end with "-ist" or "-ism" through the story I'd just like to clarify that I don't believe in a good deal of the perspectives I write off my own value system. I'm utilizing value systems appropriate to characters at their time and level of exposure, and a lot of them won't align with contemporary mindsets. Anyone ready to complain about it in the comments is welcome to do so, but my answer won't diverge much from this narrative. That said, anything in the notes section is fair game to call me out in.
> 
> And yes, to clarify, Taiga suspects Artoria got trafficked into Japan. I mean, young, nubile, unusual foreign girl - the kind of exotic beauty that tends to be fetishized - who can't speak a lick of the local language somehow ending up in an alleyway, dressed bizarrely and barely clinging to life from a stab wound. Also helps that she's the daughter of a mob boss, who'd probably listen to their kid about stuff like that. It'd be bad business to let stuff like that happen on your own turf, and I like to think having a daughter nudged old man Raiga to writing off those industries from his racket.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, just to establish some details here about Artoria. 
> 
> She isn't exactly Saber, and she isn't a servant. She doesn't know why she was sent here, and actually had no idea she got sent anywhere else for a lot of the intro. She doesn't have her gear or her legend to empower her, but at the same time isn't restricted solely to her Saber skill set and isn't facing the usual "Gaia wants to Alt-F4 my existence".
> 
> Also, I aim to write her more as a king from a time past in a strange and distant land, rather than a somewhat well-informed and driven servant of the grail hellbent on undoing her own reign.
> 
> Lastly, I swear this will pick up. As a writer, I'm way more comfortable with character interactions. A lone person meandering about tends to strain my limited capabilities, and the quality of my work might be affected due to this. We'll get to scenes where the cast actually interact and communicate pretty soon, but for now please bear with it. Next chapter we'll be getting a very special guest...

Dawn had long since broken the sky, as Artoria had missed rousing to meet it. Restful slumber was a rare experience amidst the notions plaguing the king, but the last night had been the closest she'd gotten to such in a good while. Quiet and dreamless and comforting... so obviously, it had to end. The king of knights had long been far beyond the notion of petty grumbling over such matters, but perhaps not as far as she'd believed herself to be. 

A letter caught her eye, scribbled in quick, messy script - thankfully, understandable. it sat by the little bouquet they'd brought her, awaiting. 

She picked it up, and a shower of notes and coins rattled off the cabinet. Artoria moved to gather the mess before proceeding to sort through the message's contents.

* * *

Hey, Blondie 

Wanted to wake you, but Shirou told me the doctors needed to you rest as much as possible. There's a television in the living room if you get bored, and some meals prepped in the fridge that should tide you over until we get back. Or you could cook - wouldn't mind something European later, actually. Might be interesting to see how a native actually preps them.

If you want to go for a walk around town, feel free. Left you some of my old clothes and a bit of spending money if you want to walk around - Shirou may have been against it, the worrywart. Just don't overexert yourself and you'll be fine. But we don't have extra keys though, so if you plan to wander a while we'll probably be back at seven at the latest.

You'll be safe here. Fuyuki City is a nice place, normally. We'll look into why you were an exception. Try not to pull your stitches, alright? 

-Taiga

* * *

Artoria felt a rare smile grace her lips at the gesture. Even if a good deal of the message made little sense, the essentials made themselves known. She was under their protection. It was absurd to think about,.. but quite admirable all the same. 

She'd eaten her fare in silence, thankfully recalling where Emiya had retrieved the blessedly familiar utensils after her humiliating display. It was uncanny to realize that a mere spoon was the closest reminder to Britannia she'd seen thus far. 

It seemed to be what remained of their previous night's supper, though soaked in broth and topped with what she strongly suspected to have been egg. It didn't quite look as appetizing compared to their last encounter, and a good deal of the foreign crispness had ebbed away with the mix. She moved the spoon to sample it, slicing through absurdly soft meat and rice... and found it delectable. Perhaps even moreso than its original iteration, which would have been almost heretical to say had she not savored it now. The meal went down quickly. As did the next - a bit faster than she'd have preferred. 

There were three more containers remaining, though Artoria chose to leave them be. Taking any more would have been unbecoming of a king, even as her stomach grumbled greedily, longingly... no, she mustn't. 

A jaunt around the area sounded promising enough. Back to the town of lights and fanciful people meandering about. It might have been its own kingdom, and afforded a rare opportunity to the eternal king - to experience life as a subject, however briefly. Without the tedium and the machinations and the policies to maintain and enforce. 

They'd left the clothing in their washroom, hanging at the door. Artoria privately mused gratitude at the poor physician who had to explain the notion to her through gestures and stilted English alone before beginning to dress herself for the day.

A white shirt, collared - thankfully, not to the ridiculous extremes some nobles had taken them to. It was soft to the touch, yet felt vaguely starched with her motions. It might have been simple inexperience - it had been a good while since she'd worn women's apparel for normal functions, and these were nothing like the minuscule number of them she'd been acquainted with in her homeland. It was joined by a dark skirt unlike the ones in their balls, doing away with farthingales in favor of simple, shapeless fabric that swayed with her steps. She glanced at the ensemble provided, idly wondering what her court might have said. Merlin excluded, obviously - bastard was predictable like that. 

Thankfully, the skirt had pockets to work with - one of the reasons she preferred men's apparel for casual occasions, "indecency" be damned. The coins and notes slipped into her left easily enough, and Artoria could manage a reasonable pace that kept the currency from jostling against one other. 

There had to be a traveler's inn somewhere along the way. Not for the day, of course, but perchance the next. The Emiya household had already given so much for this stranger of a king, and it would be beneath her to infringe even more on the scant spheres of altruism she'd encountered.

Work would be difficult to find, given her inconveniently-youthful appearance. Laborers would need convincing of her merit, which would be bothersome but not too difficult to manage. Even without mana burst, a knight king's active lifestyle cultivated more than passable strength. Hopefully enough of that remained to aid her, despite the injury that still seemed to gnaw at her innards - now less a wound, more a reminder that could not be silenced. 

And she could write in English. Scribes were in decent demand in distant locales and provinces, given the lack of formal means available to the masses. Something to be addressed upon her return, but for the moment a possible boon in her journey. A female scribe might even have more success in that endeavor, given the novelty - though the idea of utilizing her secret that way still clawed at her probably-misplaced pride. She might even earn enough fare to travel all the way back in a carriage: all Artoria needed was time and determination, and she had plenty of the latter. 

Tomorrow then. She'd bid them farewell, gratitude, perhaps even bequeath her kingdom's name to them. Claim she was an agent of the court who'd been sent far away on an assignment and betrayed, and that her benefactors would repay all of their kindness in dividends.

A more honest approach would have been preferable. Pity it had never been an option.

But today, the world awaited. And perhaps the respite had been more sorely needed than she'd imagined it to be. 

<\- ->

A few glances were sent her way, owners seamlessly fading with the dense crowds. Not warily - to her surprise - but their eyes set and shone with stifled curiosity. She'd weathered those same gazes during her countryside visits, practically buried in form concealing armor. Atop her horse, Dun Stallion, even her size had been difficult to discern. On her own two feet, revealing far more than she'd ever shown in her life, a sense of vulnerability nagged at her chest through throes of squeezing, tumultuous concern. 

Artoria buried the unease deep within herself, fingers nestled and tracing circles around the hems of her borrowed skirt. It was the closest task she could act upon to calm her body's demands - of some sort of actions. For, against, it mattered not, and remained maddening. Her instincts had bore her no favors in these peaceful lands, and a shameful part of her coveted just how at ease their world seemed to be. As her own had been naught but ravaged by time and rebellion and Saxons...

And perhaps, her own negligence. A concern to be dealt with in due time, once she could quite literally afford to return. 

It was a bright land, with false lights that dazzled. They seemed brighter now, despite casting themselves aglow against the ever-blinding sun. It might have been simple appreciation - her first encounter with them had been speckled with pain and delirium. 

Mechanized beasts roamed the path, occasionally roaring with their rider's indignation. 

It had come as a startling find at the time, to find such steads larger and heavier than even the stoutest of her nation's chargers. Artoria had been privately relieved to have kept her composure on their journey home, even as what she'd assumed to have been magecraft creations drifted closer to the odd pair under a parasol. She'd noted a coachman nestled snugly within the stained glass, listlessly maneuvering the contraption. It had been a relief, truly, to see it was more akin to a carriage than a beast of burden. 

A horseless carriage. But she'd seen and lived through far stranger. The king would simply have Merlin explain the nuances behind the craft upon her return. 

Shops dotted the streets she'd wandered amidst, peddlers bellowing their wares and prices with grinning visages, conveying their enthusiasm and precious little else. 

Despite her appearance, and how well she'd taken to the role of honored guest (much to her confusion, but not dissatisfaction), Artoria had clear goals to pursue. Returning to the smoldering remnants of her first reign. Quell the rebellions - that had likely only gained strength since her incapacitation. Reunite her nation to drive off the invaders that had long since breached their firmly set borders, either through force or threat of it. 

And bury her fallen. Inter the remains of their sacrifice in stone as a monument to their strength. Of her failings. Her subjects. Her knights. Her kingdom. 

Gawain deserved better. His remains would be found, even if she had to personally scour every corpse in Camlaan for his coat of arms. As much as the sentiment disgusted her. Even Mordred. She was a knight of the round, despite her treachery. Her... spawn... served well during her short tenure of loyalty. It would be egregious not to respect that. A private vigil, for an errant child led astray. 

Every note and coin she could scrounge would serve that incorrigible goal. She would arrive before the embers of Britannia wilted into ash, even if she had to serve as kindling. It would be no different than the services she'd already rendered - simply far more urgent. But there were goals to be reiterated, understood. Her lack of comprehension had been crippling, as the world turned against her and she'd blatantly maintained her ignorance of the scale of her enemies. 

An atlas would make a difference. Something to map out the world beyond her realm's borders, which she'd sorely, shamefully neglected until it had been far too late to make a difference. Such vital information had been jealously guarded by her encroaching neighbors, but perhaps this land had less concerns to stymie that information. 

Finding such a thing in a crowded district, without so much as the slightest of inklings into where to begin, proved a great deal easier than expected. Her unusual appearance compared to the locals proved to be a boon for the instance, as traders seemed to cock their heads at the foreign girl, pitching their wares in what they thought to be her tongue - however broken and accented their attempts proved to be. 

It was a shame it would all proceed poorly from that point onward. 

Despite her own distaste for personal frivolity, it wouldn't have been entirely true for Artoria to claim she hadn't been at all curious what she could discover in Japan. Everything proved alien to her, from their adornments to their towns and most importantly their cuisine. And it had all proven... appreciable. Were she not duty-bound, an extension to her stay would have been pleasant. And fancifully indulgent, for she was. 

An atlas painted atop a football, suspended through a rod of bronze. Like an artist's compass - the memory came with Merlin and his overstocked study, gently tracing along an image on parchment, quietly muttering about "Padua". It rested across its side, seemingly crooked despite everything deliberate about it. Such a strange flaw to overlook. 

It was curious. A child's toy, novel and painstakingly crafted. Artoria flicked it about with the flat of her thumb, growing embarrassingly enamored at the sight of the whole world spinning from her actions. Strange how tiny her domain had been, seeing the world set on such a grandiose stage. A lump of land no longer than her index finger once pressed against it. Brittania had always seemed much larger from where she'd been gazing. Despite her pragmatic goals, the sheer vastness of it all was humbling. Agravain might have thought the same, and the idea of bringing the toy with her seemed just a bit more worthwhile, even if just to witness his split-second surprise.

But it wouldn't do, no matter how interesting the bauble. It would have been cumbersome to carry along with her through the entire journey. A smaller implement would do just fine. Something she could fold and flatten, to stuff on her person and unfurl on their council table. She conveyed the sentiment to the trader - he vaguely reminded her of Sir Ector, only stouter and eyes set at a perpetual squint - who miraculously understood her through gestures alone.

She handed the older man a fistful of notes for payment. It felt odd handling paper currency: too fragile for her own populace. It would crumple and tear within their pouches, and the seasons would make short work of whatever remained. It was a minor, welcome concession, that the values had been printed in symbols she'd been more acquainted with, so the King of Knights could pay without looking a fool. 

And her eyes settled on the smooth, glistening paper. It felt proofed, slick and slippery and quite possibly treated in beeswax to combat dampness. A good find - even the lands bore names in English, though she had to stare quite closely to make out the tiny script that denoted them. Finding Japan had been easy, if a bit time consuming. The bustling voices that echoed in the district didn't help matters, as much as she'd tried to tune out the incessant noise.

The distance between the two regions was... not insurmountable. That was all Artoria could generously say on the matter. Achievable, for she would not accept anything else of herself. And yet, the distance was staggering. A two month march from her capital to France was no longer than a fingernail on the grand chart. 

And now, she was more than an entire's hand's length away from her beloved home. 

Her fingers shook and drummed, rustling the atlas in her hand. She could sense more gazes boring into her back - anxious and unnerved. Rightly so. 

_Damn it._

How long had she been wounded? How in the hell had she gotten this far from Britannia? It would take months. More than likely years. The embers of her kingdom would bitter ashes by then. Her court would scatter. Morgan would consolidate her strength, as would her neighbors, and a selfish tyranny would be the least of her people's concerns. 

And she'd been here, helplessly journeying towards a foregone conclusion. Caustic, disgusted bile bubbled at the edge of her throat. It seeped further upwards, and the taste of tangy acrid made itself known. Artoria's strength was waning, her single-minded purpose drifting somewhere unbearably, unbearably ever-distant. 

And it was absurd. It should have been. Cartography was a slow trade to change. She meandered around the rest of the meaningless names, settling on what ought to have been familiar lands. Resting her finger on her home, where it was easier to see the land she'd been taken from. 

Britannia was... not. It bore a different name. United Kingdoms. 

Something was terribly, terribly amiss. 

Artoria scoured the map for more knowledge. To make sense of the divergence. To reconcile... something. Whatever it was that ached like a warning incessantly. 

[Date of Print: November 12, 2003.]

It dotted the corner of the atlas. Like an epitaph. 

Centuries out of date. It had to be wrong. 

She asked the salesman, who brushed off her concerns - clearly having lost interest once she'd spent the lion's share of what she had. She redoubled her inquiry, and a half-attentive nod was sent her way. "Yes, it right." And it couldn't be. Couldn't have been. Mustn't be. It was impossible. 

It was a laughable. It was a absurd. It was a myth, above all things. Tall tales old men told their inquisitive, adopted children to coax them into pondering silence. 

Like the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus. Who'd waited out their persecution in a dim cave, awakening in the strange time centuries after the torrent of violence had subsided. 

A myth. A myth. A myth. A myth...

She couldn't be. This couldn't be. Something was wrong, but certainly not this. Nothing so extravagant. Nothing so cruel.

It couldn't have been. 

Avalon! Yes, Avalon! It had been taken from her. She'd slept, but never for that long. Without her sheathe, she aged like the mortal she was. And yet she was here, no more than a handful of days past the fateful morning since Caliburn had chosen a king. She hadn't slept. She'd been taken. Must have been. It must have been Morgan. 

For all the good it did to realize such.

Artoria was still far, far away, in a distance that borrowed from the troves of time itself. Flung into the future, discarded like a broken blade. Where everything had changed.

Galahad was dead.

She'd seen Gawain pass on.

Made certain Morded had done the same.

Lancelot as well.

Along with Gwenyvere.

Along with all the knights he'd slain.

Percival must have been, despite King Pellinore's wishes. 

Agravain too, vainly working to save the failing kingdom...

No. Agravain was dead - struck down by Lancelot in blinded rage. She'd been an imbecile to forget that, out of warped and alluring nostalgia.

It was time to remember it all as it had been, not as it once was. 

Tristan, still fixed in the same somber frown even unto death, pining for a love unrequited.

Along with Sir Ector, who'd raised her justly and taught her temperance.

Kay, who'd often tested that temperance in ways only a brother could.

Merlin had passed on as well, surely, with the same cocksure grin and taunting warmth. Relentless wit and the insatiable, politically-inconvenient lust of an Incubus.

But dead nonetheless.

All of them. All her subjects. All her comrades. All her enemies as well, though that was meaninglessly hollow in comparison to it all. 

Artoria pocketed the map mechanically, and settled on a brisk walk away. To create distance from somewhere and something she hated to name. Her purchase groaned and wrinkled in her haphazard pocket. It might have fallen out, for all the care she could muster. 

Kings did not mourn. Knights did not weep.

But she was neither now, and she never would be, and Artoria Pendragon set out in urgent search of privacy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Research was a real bitch - might have spent more time googling "Japanese ER expenses for people without insurance" more than I did the servant parameters and lore. I've settled/given up on a very rough number, and if I get proven wrong I will gladly swap it in post-publication.
> 
> Also, Artoria is wearing young Taiga's outfit. If you want a reference point, she wore it by the ending frame of Fate Zero, where they were moving. 
> 
> https://typemoon.fandom.com/wiki/Taiga_Fujimura?file=Young_Taiga_Character_Sheet_Emiya-san.png
> 
> Farthingales - the things that help ball gowns keep their round shape. Precursor to the crinoline.
> 
> And Merlin has a drawing compass, despite it being made about a hundred years after Camlaan or something. Not an anachronism, or at the least not an unjustified one. Homeboy be clairvoyant in FGO.
> 
> Lastly, this chapter, as I mentioned, is very removed from my usual style. I know I ask for comments a lot already, but I'd really appreciate it if you could leave some thoughts on this entry in particular. I'm pretty uncertain how it turned out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Religion won't play a super big part in the story, but it will be somewhat of an element at the start.
> 
> Experimenting with POV hopping here. I have no intention of turning it into a regular thing - probably once every five chapters, at best. If feedback is okay with it, I'll retain the current iteration. If not, kindly let me know what worked and what didn't so I might be able to improve on it.

A chained beast, hulking and monstrous. Spittle and warm mist radiated with each strained, heaving breath. Ever so often, the chains binding them shuddered from unconscious struggling. Even in slumber, it remained formidable. The tether at its right ankle had long since been torn out of the ground, in a careless period of time the behemoth hadn't been magically sedated with enough mana to render a formidable hydra into a drooling, brain-dead snake. A scant few seconds - less than the fingers on one hand - was all it would take for all their efforts to spoil. For all their ambitions to be decimated. For all her questions to remain that way, forever. 

Illya von Einsbern simply couldn't allow another opportunity for that to happen. It was a tool to be utilized, maintained, and controlled. It would yield, that much was certain. 

And yet, the slow breath leaving her lips came in shudders. Her spine tingled and chilled, and not just from the cold.

<\- ->

The sheer, numbing despondence collapsed on Artoria like leaden weight. Only the vestiges of a king's shattered pride - unerring in their owner's willingness to serve - kept it from crushing her utterly. Ever a failed king, a failed knight - now nothing but a marionette with taut strings cut, propped up by habit and stance and precious little else.

The King of Knights blinked. Tears didn't fall. They hadn't in years - every droplet rationed for efficiency during her rule, yielded in sweat from exertion at the most. Even her body had taken to her ruling with cold efficiency, as her mind jostled with intrusions. Memories. Decisions. 

Possibilities. 

And how none of them mattered. 

And how deluded she'd been trying to deny that. Remembering them all for what they once were, when even she failed the very metric itself. Hypocritical. 

Merlin had left, long ago. It had felt a dream then - her minx of a mentor might have spent a long evening with one of his many dalliances. That he'd return, with the solution to her shortcomings and some sage wisdom to boot. But all dreams end when the dreamer wakes, and she'd finally forced her eyes open. 

Lancelot had betrayed her. Betrayed her kingdom. Betrayed his duty. Murdered two of their own and taken her wife. And she'd have happily obliged the two of them. But the court demanded blood. Artoria would have gladly paid with her own - as much as she needed to. But the choice hadn't been hers to make. Some king she'd been. He'd been a fine knight then... no, he always was. Despite the loneliness, distanced by different tongues from his motherland. She'd wasted a fine comrade. 

The atlas... pointless. Agravain had been among the first to die. There was little to do with the trinket beyond burying it with him, and she'd seen enough corpses.

Gawain had been ever loyal to her, to the bitter end. The last loyal knight she'd seen fall, ever-dutiful to his liege. And she'd let his sibling's killer go free. Offered him clemency when a blade had been more apt for his crime. And she'd insisted, even as the Knight of the Sun's teeth gnashed and fingers curled into shaking fists at the... audacity. Yes, it had been nothing short of audacious of her. 

Many, many more failures it was best to not dwell on, for a king moved only towards the future, and a knight led that brave charge - a vanguard into the unknown, relentless in pursuit of prosperity. But she was neither, and she dwelled. Shamefully. Sir Ector. Sir Kay. Gwenyvere. Galahad. Mordred. The brave. The cowardly. The dead. The damned. The nameless. Delusions had no place now, when there was nothing to rectify them. Distorted memories were the worst disrespect she could hold.

She resolved - that was all she was good for, truly - to accept. With all the truth she could muster. As they were, before she'd left. 

It was the closest she could get to them. Distance could never steal away a memory. Time could, and the thought terrified her, but not today. Today, she remembered. 

Today, she mourned.

Amidst the unfamiliar architecture, the closest thing to a beacon she could find practically beckoned at her presence. A fine building that reminded her of home - stained glass and sharp roofing. A decent place for a final vigil - it would have to do. 

<\- ->

A tiny congregation, propagating their half-hearted beliefs garbed in the guise of conviction. His own view on the matter, of course - he could well be mistaken.

No more than a dozen wandering souls, less than half of them natives. It was always somewhat entertaining to see the types of people this God brought to the forefront. 

Christianity wasn't a very common religion in Japan, and without alternative finances to procure his father's church would have long since been foreclosed. The usual song and dance continued, raucous voices practically screaming imagined conviction towards the heavens, his own dulcet baritones booming with the poorly-harmonized voices.

Perhaps someone truly did listen, high in the sky and deep within the clouds. 

Kirei Kotomine doubted he'd ever hear from them. His hands had already been slicked with enough blood to drown in, even before the Fourth War. How ironic, that a churches' work damns him into a life away from their deity. 

How ironic, that he didn't particularly care. He wasn't a sociopath - his world would have been far, far easier if he were - but it was simply of no real consequence. Both fitting and ironic, for a man with a false heart. Gilgamesh would have found humor in that, and it would be foolish for Kirei to disagree in his presence. 

That being said, the mundane had its own appeal. Kirei continued into the second verse, long fingers deftly continuing the piece and hammering at the heavy piano keys, even as his voice ceased and his thoughts drifted and searched for the rare, complicated memories. 

Claudia had been a wonder at a grand piano, despite her body practically crumpling from weakness. She'd insisted on learning with him, and he'd obliged her with the little time they both knew she had left. Nothing brought out talent like urgency, and his wife gave everything she could into learning the instrument. 

And she did. And she'd even tried to teach him. 

She died and succeeded, in that order. 

The instrument brought complicated feelings to the priest. Something akin to memories, but more pointed. It was difficult to describe, but he didn't dislike it. So he continued.

Kirei wondered how her daughter was faring. Perhaps she had her mother's talent for music. Perhaps she even had more time to make use of it. 

He banished the needless thought from his mind and jumped into the final verse, interrupting them midway through the song. 

The mass continued with the same brainless protocol he could recite with his tongue cut out, along with the usual round of blessings and alms. It ended quietly, as they always did, and the priest retired to his quarters - ostensibly to prepare for the next meeting in the church of God. 

<\- ->

As a king, she'd knelt before no lord. As a knight, she'd yielded to no man. 

This was no exception. 

She clasped her small hands together, lips pursued and touching her finger. It had been decades since she'd prayed. Since she'd prostrated to something greater than herself. Since she'd ever had need for such things. A holdover from her experiences reigning - which she never possessed before - remained outraged at the gesture of fealty, but it was done as a person. Not a knight, nor a king - simply Artoria Pendragon, no more and no less. She met the cultivated outrage with indifference.

_Lord..._

Where to begin. Where to end. It felt wrong to want - ironic, how service came far more naturally to her than desire, other than desire to be of service. 

How pathetic for a king. How unbecoming for a knight. She did her titles disservice. 

_I seek to plead. to mourn, if I cannot._

How selfish of her. 

_I deserve nothing. I have been a worthless follower. But my people have not been. They've been dutiful, and steadfast, and so much more to deserve their treatment. As have my court. And I've failed everything. And I've been taken from all my failures, and I know not. I know not. Please ensure their safety._

Surely, He would grant them that at the least?

No, He owed them nothing. It would be generosity - she'd sincerely hoped it would be granted to her people. 

_My knights, please. May their spirits find the respite I robbed from them through service._

_Percival. Kay. Gaheris. Gareth. Palamedes. Tristan. Gawain. Lancelot. Bedivere. Galahad. Agravain. Mordred._

A self-absorbed yearning insisted on making itself known, even as the thought left her shamed.

_I've turned into an aimless creature._

_Please, I implore you. Grant me wisdom. Strength has failed me. Conviction has damned me. Righteousness has scorched my kingdom into kindling._

_Please, grant me guidance. I... beg of you._

<\- ->

The black keys in his coat practically ached for long-deprived excitement, ten grueling years of passivity rearing its ugly, impulsive head.

It would have been pointless, despite his own rather formidable prowess in battle. A smaller legend, he could subdue with some exertion. But the battle would end poorly - either from the King of Knights loping his head off, or whatever the King of Heroes would decide should he catch word of his actions.

A servant - a servant in his church... by her lonesome, no less. And who else but the Saber, who'd shattered the foundation of the last war. She knelt by a pew in prayer, eyes closed, knees pressed, elbows resting on the bench, unarmed and unarmored, and so very, very vulnerable. 

But perhaps not. Rumors had flitted about among the executors - propagated by the Mage Association, in token efforts to cultivate trust - regarding a distasteful ceremony conducted in their country. Seeking to revive King Arthur in body and soul - at the cost of the precious little its vessel owned being torn apart. It might have been the fruits of their unsavory labor before him, and despite his nature Kotomine Kirei bore no targeted malice against the pitiful sacrifice. 

The resemblance was uncanny, despite the clothing she wore. It was odd to be reminded just how slight of build some larger-than-life legends were. 

And she seemed troubled in every sense, knuckles whitening from her own grip like a strangled lifeline. Her fingers trembled terribly - imperceptibly so for most people, but he'd never been like most people in the first place. Most of all, the self-righteous pride was gone in favor of total prostrated pleading. He'd seen his fair share of such sorry cases - mothers and fathers, pleading for their child's recovery despite the laughable impossibility. The gesture reeked of mangled desperation. 

It was rather appreciable, watching someone brought so low. 

One of his duties at the church was to aid the ailing within these walls. He'd get around to it eventually.

For the time being, Kotomine Kirei walked to the pew behind her with silent grace, seating himself comfortably to view the best entertainment he'd had in days. 

<\- ->

It was blessed relief, despite everything, to sit and pray like an uncertain child. Sleepless and awaiting by their bedside in the dead of night. It reminded her of... not quite better times. Simpler times, yes. When she had yet to bear the weight of a kingdom - the reminder almost felt as foreign to her as her surroundings. 

She'd truly, truly missed those days. With Sir Ector's grueling but satisfying training, along with Kay's biting tongue to accompany their evenings spent exhausted from the old man's training. A simple night's sleep, sounded by nature and devoid of decorative guards, waking to a hearty breakfast that never quite filled the same way into adulthood.

But those days were long past - distanced from her by far more than mere years. And she'd acted unbecomingly for far too long now - she was a king, dammit. Not a veiled widow in mourning. And yet the urge to continue to do just that... needed to be silenced, urgently, before it swallowed her whole. A king ought to never despair - only now did Artoria consider the mantra was more for their sake then their kingdom's. 

She rose from her position, pleased - hollowly - that she'd retained a modicum of dignity despite herself. The displaced king smoothed her borrowed skirt and readied to leave, only to be interrupted by a thrumming baritone. 

"I beg pardon?" She replied, irked at her own knee-jerk response. Even if they'd practiced some of her nation's customs and beliefs, language was - as had been made abundantly clear already - not a guarantee. Taiga was an oddity, and in far more ways than mere language. 

Artoria turned to the person speaking to her (it had to have been, she realized. No one else was present beyond the one seated behind her) and tried to convey her apologies wordlessly. It was difficult, as one who hadn't needed been accustomed to do so even using her own tongue. She plastered the emotion on her posture, and hoped it came through to the... priest, she decided. Not that she could ask, but who else would loiter in an empty church? 

"My apologies, child." He said, giving a quick, polite bow that she'd learned was the norm in these parts - Artoria repeated the gesture in kind. The priest regarded her oddly, head tilted and curious the same way Merlin had been whenever she made a 'kingly' decision.

"You speak?" It was rare to find people who could understand her, let alone capable to converse with. Borderline-childlike excitement bubbled deep in the pit of her stomach at the long-disregarded possibility. "You speak English?" 

"Passably." The priest retorted, hand clasping at his sleeve. "I've had some exposure abroad, and with the limited nature of Christianity in Japan most of my flock happen to be mostly naturalized citizens or tourists who struggle with Nihongo as well." 

Which must have been the language here, then. Artoria discretely made note of the term before her memory lapsed the word. 

"I was safer not to assume, though in retrospect I should have began conversing in English." 

"No." She returned, suddenly conscious of her own status. "You've no need to adjust to my incapability. But I'm grateful all the same - it's difficult, finding people I can converse with." 

"I can imagine." He supplied sympathetically, hands steepling in thought. "Are you troubled, child?" 

_Yes. Dearly so..._

"I don't mean to pry." The priest elaborated, and only then did Artoria realize she'd lost herself in thought. She resolved not to repeat the mistake so soon, and focused her attention on the tall priest before her. "It's simply my own experiences dictating my inquiries. Very few that lose themselves in prayer are not marred by difficulties. And forgive me for saying this, young one, but you don't particularly strike me as particularly devout." 

"You aren't mistaken, father." She admitted, feeling just a bit of shame. "Apologies, but may I ask of your name?" 

The clergyman seemed to be taken aback, regarding her as if she'd acted scandalously. Was asking one's name a taboo? It was all such a mess to sort out now. 

"Apologies for my rudeness, father-" Artoria attempted to concede. Better safe than sorry at this point, only to be interrupted. 

"No, child. You've nothing to apologize for." He assured, smiling - the kind of smile Sir Agravain possessed: doctored and never used personally. Worn for the benefit of others, and poorly so for that matter. Still, Agravain tried, and she wouldn't begrudge a man of the cloth their attempt to do the same. "Kotomine Kirei. First name Kirei." 

She regarded him carefully, picking at her words. "The clarification is..." 

_Humiliating._

"... appreciated, Father Kirei." 

"I'm glad to be of service, child." Kirei said. "May I ask the same of you in kind? I'm quite certain you don't appreciate being addressed as child... very few do." 

"Hanako." Artoria admitted, grateful she could even recall the name given to her. "Hanako Yamada. First name Hanako." 

Fortunately, Father Kirei didn't seem to take it for patronization - as much as she wanted to apologize for the affront then and there. His lips curled into an amused smirk - one Artoria hadn't quite moved past receiving. It reminded her too much of impassioned, idiotic nobility, but the man likely meant nothing by it. 

"I... see..." He conceded, eyes lit with muted skepticism. It was, fortunately, the polite kind, and the priest stopped prying at that point. "May I ask as to what's troubling you, Hanako? I'm rather acquainted with such matters, and it would reflect poorly on my station to let a troubled soul wallow in a house of God without interruption."

Truth be told, the very notion sounded appalling. She had a handful of confidants, and most of them were - if everything absurd proved true - dead and buried by now. Even if they hadn't been, a year's worth of ground to cover - at the barest of minimums - ensured her accursed isolation. She'd never actually gone to confessionals in the past: the notion was bolstered by principle. Namely that kings were never to show weakness, but she was no longer a king.

And so the once unthinkable offer now came into serious consideration, then acceptance.

"I'm lost, Father Kirei." She admitted, relieved at the expendable confidant before her. "Or I've lost my way." 

<\- ->

It must have been difficult. His own experiences on the matter were nothing short of sheer, unbridled agony. 

Kotomine Kirei moved to the side of the pew, behind what he had ascertained to be the poor sacrifice that wore King Arthur's visage. Her pain didn't quite amuse him as it had moments ago. Perhaps it was his long-thought to be imagined empathy finally making itself known? 

No. His only regret with his wife's suicide was he hadn't killed her himself. 

Yes, absolutely. 

His only regret with his father's passing was that he hadn't murdered him as well. 

Irrefutably so. 

And his daughter... irrelevant. And he treated it with the attention it demanded and moved onto other things.

Perhaps this pain came with the notion he hadn't inflicted the suffering troubling poor... Hanako, was it? Such an atrocious alias to take. Her foreign features coupled with her absolute inexperience with speaking the tongue her namesake originated from painted a poor picture. Still, he could scarce imagine what had driven her to such lengths. 

The girl was of flesh and blood, that much was certain. He'd been around a hundred spirits during the inception of the last war - Gaia's efforts to undermine their existence would have been exceedingly blatant, had she actually been one of the grail's creations. There was no "tug" - the manifestation of the earth's condemnation - so to speak.

Yet her mere existence was an affront to nature - or the Mage Association's warped view of it. A sealing designation would be more than expected for such an anomaly. 

Enough contemplation. It was a good decision to move out of eyeshot of the girl, lest she note the complicated considerations plaguing his thoughts. 

"I promise that you are not alone in that regard, Hanako." To be found wanting and listless... human nature, in all its sadistic dissonance. "You seem to be in mourning." 

The blond not-Saber nodded in accordance.

"May I ask as to what?" 

"My people." 

_How archaic._

His gaze renewed back into wariness. Even someone from the most remote of villages wouldn't refer to them like such - it implied a degree of rulership. He sincerely doubted a teenager could genuinely know of such matters.

Unless of course, she'd channeled more than King Arthur's mere flesh and strength. In which case, the poor girl had every ounce of the minuscule pity that existed within his false heart. Losing one's sense of self was terrifying to experience, but most importantly it was boring for onlookers. 

"Friends and family?" He corrected politely. The girl froze briefly in recognition of her error, which she shook off pointedly. Her ponytail rocked with the denial. It would be something worth looking into. Bazett might be kind enough to fill in the gaps in the church's information - the poor thing lived a life woefully starved of companionship. So much that his mere presence - off-putting as he knew himself to be - somehow supplied the Irishwoman a modicum of comfort.

Kotomine knew himself very much the same, of course. The difference was that he could live with it without batting an eye. His satisfaction came elsewhere. 

"Yes, Father Kirei." She lied - the girl was terrible at it. Pride or shame, he suspected. Perhaps something in between... or something else entirely - the disparity grew readily. His own experiences with the turmoil left him painfully perceptive of such matters. Occasionally it even proved useful. "The people I... grew up with have passed on." 

"Was it a sudden experience?" The Mage Association weren't above unsavory tactics - they simply preferred not to sully their gloved hands. An incident like Alimago Island would be met with 'justified' force: namely a team of enforcers tasked with scorching the area's inhabitants to ash. To uphold their silly masquerades. 

The blond girl nodded painfully at some memory. "Very." Her throat cracked at the word, which he courteously chose to ignore. 

"I see. You've my condolences." As if that made any difference to mourners. 

"Thank you." As if it helped matters at all. 

A hollow conversation. How droll. 

"What would those people say, if they were still with you?" 

"It's difficult to say, Father. A good deal of those people acted differently than what I'd grown accustomed to." She argued, though a small hand rested on her cheek in thought. 

"Would there be anything those people could offer that could comfort you?" Kindness was naught but a placation for confused souls. His own wife's tender care, his father's assurances and pride as the man bled out... simply gnawed at his broken soul. 

The girl who wore a king's face shook her head. "I don't believe so, Father." 

It was refreshing to not be alone, even if it was about matters as twisted as that. Heroic Spirits - or whatever in the world she was - were rarely paragons themselves, and there was some respite to be taken with the solidarity. 

"Then there's no purpose in musing, is there." Petty assurances - if someone had provided him the same advisement when such notions troubled him unabashedly, Kotomine Kirei's mood would have pointedly soured towards the speaker. Welcome ones, though. The girl had finally deigned to turn her head, genuinely perplexed. "Grieving is necessary. I apologize, child, but only time can aid you. It would be remiss of anyone to assume they understand your struggle, myself included." 

The girl kept her peace, lost in hapless thought. The kind of internal debate that dredged one's soul with painful contemplation, and yet there was little joy to be taken from it. She'd long since spoiled his satisfaction at her suffering. 

"You mustn't lose yourself, Hanako." He reminded her gently, mind set at his own loathsome memories of the struggle. "Though it means little from one ignorant of your true plight. Take it as mere concern from a stranger." 

"There is nothing 'mere' about any concern... even if it comes from strangers. I am truly relieved at your kindness, Father Kirei." 

"I'll take your praise with gratitude." He returned, genuinely glad to be of service for the first time in years. "I regret I cannot grant anything more than placations to your pain."

"Placations are plenty already, Father. And it's such a relief to hold an actual conversation in my mother tongue." 

"I can imagine..." For that was all he could really do. As much as he couldn't enjoy the girl's suffering, the face she wore raised far too many questions he'd be an idiot to ignore. Some scrutiny would be necessary to understand - put simply - what the actual hell was going on. 

He spared a glance at the wall clock, noting the hands from the corner of his eye. The mundane life truly was intrusive at times. 

"While I quite enjoy our talk, Hanako-" Genuinely so, much to his own surprise, with as little as he'd actually accomplished during it. "-The evening mass is due in about two hours or so. I'm afraid we'll have to vacate the premises until then."

The girl radiated disappointment at the news, shrugging her tiny shoulders despondently. "I understand. Thank you for having me." 

She rose to leave. It would have been a shame to cut their time short, and he had the perfect place in mind. 

"Young one - Hanako..." The false name rolled off his tongue like spools of barbed wire. She turned to face him. "Would you mind accompanying an old man for a meal?" 

She bit her tongue - actually bit her tongue. "I'm afraid I've nothing to pay with." 

"That's nothing to be concerned about." Kirei assured her, face plastered with the same smile he shared with his flock. "I simply can't leave you to lament by your lonesome in good conscience - your mood fell quite drastically the moment I told you we needed to leave." 

Thin arms crossed over her chest, and the expression on her face turned complicated. As if she'd loathed the pity he directed at her - it wasn't pity he felt, truly - yet found it knotted with a modicum of appreciation... he wasn't patronizing her, was he? 

"I rather enjoy our conversation - despite what I said earlier on the matter, I have had little opportunity to practice my English in the country. Very few foreigners pray here, nowadays, and forgive a priest some selfish indulgence, but I quite enjoyed brushing up on the language with you. You'd actually be doing me a service, Hanako." 

The temptation of another decent conversation flitted across her features transparently, and it left the man to wonder just how deprived she was of that. Bazett might have had some competition on that front. 

"I'm not... comfortable with the idea of charity." Misshapen pride, yet she'd been meek and tentative at certain instances already. The girl was an oddity in herself. 

That was fine. He was more than accustomed at dealing with eccentrics.

"Is it not the church's duty to protect their flock? As an aspect of the body of Christ, do you believe us ignoring your plight in good faith - mind the pun - would be acceptable? Charity comes not from pity, young one. Simply the yearning to aid, coupled with the drive to do so. Does that assuage your concerns?" 

"Y-Yes, Father Kirei. Forgive my pride." She apologized, bowing serenely. 

"There is nothing to forgive." He returned. "Now, I ask again - would you be so kind as to indulge an old man for a meal and conversation? You're welcome to refuse, of course, but I'd just like to extend the offer properly." 

The girl who wore Saber's face smiled - he wondered if the original servant ever smiled during her own tenure in the Grail War. "I would enjoy that, Father." 

"I'm pleased to hear that. Have you ever been to Koshuensaikan Taizan? A little Chinese eatery a few streets away from here?" 

She seemed confused at the words and failed to hide it. "I can't say that I have, Father Kirei." 

He fought to wipe the grin creeping up his face, successfully smothering it into a polite smile. "You're in for quite a treat. The Mapo Tofu there is to die for." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know Gray in Case Files isn't hunted, and actively cooperates with the mages. But this happened way earlier than HGW4, and from what I remember Case Files happens concurrently with that. Also, the Church and Mage Association are difficult associates at the best of times, and wouldn't be sharing information unless absolutely necessary. It wouldn't be out of line for the information that reaches Kirei to be questionable, and coupled with the mutual loathing between both organizations (and the fact they actively trap some mages with sealing designations for simply being unique) it wouldn't be completely nonsensical to assume they're hunting the freaking magical clone/physical reincarnation of a heroic spirit to study them like a lab experiment.
> 
> Also, my headcanon for Kirei is he's a sadist but still has a modicum of empathy. He got raised right, and his nature screws him over. I think he'd enjoy watching people suffer, but he'd approach someone with similar problems as the one that plagued him for years (being lost in dissonance) with a bit more consideration. He wouldn't enjoy their suffering as much as other variants, at least. He likes people getting screwed over, but no one wants to get reminded of the things that hurt them before, and I don't think he'd be an exception to it.
> 
> Also, Kotomine isn't on edge. He isn't in Murder-Death-Kill mode, and I think he's actually a damn good priest. The only flaw that'd be really present is him enjoying his flock suffer from their struggles, but I think he'd provide good insight. After all, he did raise Rin. Tsundere-ness aside, he's good with teaching morality and the like. He just doesn't enjoy practicing it. For this reason I really, really maintain that he'd sound genuine interacting with struggling people.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the update came late. I can't promise regularized schedules like I used to because school started again, but I am doing the best I can (I think). This story has been mapped out and scrutinized, and what I lack in consistency of updates I make up for in stubbornness to finish what I start. 
> 
> Also, it's been a long day. So I just wanted to say thank you, I love you, and stay strong to every person reading this far into the page. The year hasn't been kind to anyone, but I hope I can be, and so can you too. And nothing would please me more to think of all the people paying it forward, even if just in my imagination.

Mapu Tofu truly was to die for. 

Artoria Pendragon, for the first time since childhood, winced at something that hadn't been a wound. No, obviously it wasn't - wounds never seared quite so badly. Even the memory of Clarent running her through seemed to pale and ebb away, subsumed by the plated inferno the two had been provided. 

Unbecoming of the decorum her adoptive father had instilled since youth, the king had taken to furiously fanning at her bloated tongue. For the little good it did - the scathing spice seemed to trickle down her throat from the action, and Artoria had began thumping at her own chest with a tightly-balled fist. 

Perhaps thinking the pain of her blows would quell the fire in her mouth. It mattered not, and the display came to a gratefully abrupt end as a serving girl who Artoria's keen eyes failed to notice - presumably due to the tears staining her vision - seemingly materialized before them, a pitcher of milk in hand. 

The girl poured the drink far slower than she'd any right to, and Artoria drank greedily. Creamy and sweet and blissful, lapping at her spice-brazed cheeks and tongue. 

"Are you well, child?" Her amicable companion asked, firm gaze resting intently to meet hers. Despite this, the corners of his mouth ever-so-slightly curled. It was safe to assume this was over her embarrassing lapse of control, and she could not fault the priest for his mirth. 

In fact, she was rather grateful he'd mostly maintained his composure. The few visitors that remained turned their heads, stifling their amusement at the display. To little avail - their shamelessly indulgent grins shone from the windows they'd turned to hide in. 

The wench who'd served the life-saving glass had a hand clamped over her dainty mouth, smiling with what had damn well better be kind eyes. 

"Yes, Father Kirei." She said, still taken aback but determined not to show it. It was demeaning enough, thank you very much, for people to assume she was a child from her stature alone - even when the multitudes she'd seen in the country had mostly been a good deal shorter than the bulk of her subjects. 

And the reminder decimated her somewhat amiable mood, so the king quickly did away with the thought. "It was more..."

What would have been the word? The polite one, at least.

"-vibrant than I'd expected." Her fingers drummed at the table, nails echoing of the clothed wood. 

Close enough. The world had certainly turned colorful for the most part, only briefly winking into the hued, gothic monochromes she'd seen in pretentious noble artwork. 

The priest agreed with a nod wordlessly, heaping another spoonful of tofu down his gullet. He exhaled, and Artoria could have sworn she'd seen vapors of whisping steam hiss their hideous laments out of his nostrils. Then another spoonful - the water by his side completely untouched. 

Father Kotomine had explained the misunderstanding to her when it became apparent: The restaurant had mistaken them for father and child on arrival, despite the different hair color, features, and ethnicity between the two. It was idiotic, if she might be so frank. Though nowhere near as absurd as the truth, so Artoria stilled her tongue and followed whatever clarifications the priest supplied their hosts. It would have been more appreciable if the exchange had been in a language she could understand, but so be it.

They'd given her milk - a child's drink. So she might grow strong and hearty. She imagined it so, at the least - it was very much the same in her kingdom. Being treated as a child was annoying to an adult, irregardless of which culture the condescension belonged too. But she'd been grateful when it cooled her aching tongue far better than any crystal clear water ever could, even as the patronization stung at her once-thought-to-be-extinct pride. 

"I apologize for the unnecessary surprise." He claimed, eyes stony yet glinting. Not at all apologetic as he claimed and unabashedly amused. "I ought to have warned you of the dangers. Few people could tolerate such exquisite flavors." 

Flavor seemed a lackluster word for whatever it was she'd experienced. Artoria had been a king, after all. Of a nation that prospered for a time, even if not as long as everyone would have preferred. Nothing as decadent as the kings of folklore or the French in general, but she'd eaten her fill. And the king was utterly convinced the tiny plate outdid entire banquets in sheer quantity of spices. 

"It's quite enjoyable. Thank you for your kindness." Gratitude was important - her own reign had sorely reminded her of that. How much the acknowledgement meant, if one had grown deprived for quite some time. 

It seemed to have been the case for the man of the cloth as well. He stared back, mouth barely - but noticeably - agape. Then he smirked back openly. 

"I'd have expected a bit of profanity from most of the people accompanying me here." He admitted, promptly shoveling another mouthful of pale, jiggling tofu. 

"Hospitality is never something to be ungrateful for." Artoria soundly rebutted, forehead wrinkling at the thought of such unsavory individuals. It was only through kindness she'd been alive, and kindness she'd reclaimed a portion of her strength. And hospitality granting her the revelation to glance past her own weakness, and gifting her a meal to boot. Warm, rich, and filling - only a fool would refuse it. And Artoria might have been one, but the choice to be more was before her. 

Unflinchingly, she dug the rounded, ceramic spoon into the plate, hefting a stinging morsel to her lips, and chomped. It split the food at the seams, spilling the richness in her mouth. Among many other sensations such as taste - though one of which took very, very pointed precedence in her mind, scalding her thoughts.

It was thankfully a less overt display than the last. She'd been expecting the agony, and moved accordingly before the worst of it set in. The milk was sent swirling around in her mouth with due diligence, soothing the imagined burns.

Artoria could barely make out the surprise etched on his face, but it was there. Buried under layers of weariness and stoicism - she'd perhaps been very much the same during her reign. It was interesting to wonder just what it had been that turned the man before her into a mirror of her memories. It was doubtlessly trying. 

"Very well then, child." She'd dearly wished he'd stop addressing her as such. "I was glad to be of service, even if it was just to provide physical nourishment." 

"You've done more than that, Father Kirei." It would take years to return, and there'd be nothing to return to. The revelation was so maddening it wrapped back around to lucidity. Calming in a very inordinate way, but calming nonetheless. "I fear I've no idea where my thoughts would have taken me without you." 

"Curious." He noted, beginning to laugh in a low voice. Her eyes glinted with curiosity. "It's been a good while since I've heard any of my congregation say that. Simply unexpected, and nothing more. I hope I hadn't offended you." 

"Not at all, Father." She assured. "In truth, I wouldn't be averse to another such outing. Though I insist on paying then... once I might manage the means to do so." 

There had to be something in the Fuyuki city. Labor. Innkeeping. Correspondences. She could read and write English - it was a useful skill even in local lands. Putting it to good use might be more than viable then she'd considered. Work generally wasn't difficult to find; it was the payment that complicated matters. And of course, she'd start with her hosts. A king always paid their debts. At the very least she would. 

Another chuckle from her companion. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be wise. Some of my associates in the church might grow cross with me if I took my leave too often for comfort. Especially with company that may prove... compromising to witness, no matter how unsubstantiated the claim." 

Artoria stiffened at the implication, indignant and careful not to let it bubble through. "Your associates don't seem very considerate of you, Father." 

"They have their moments. If I'm to be earnest, one in particular was responsible for saving me. I was very much like yourself hours ago - or still right now, as those meditations take much time and thought - and he saved me from the void of indecision." The door behind her rattled open with a swing, and Artoria did her best to pay it no heed. Father Kirei continued. "I owe them some gratitude, even if some of their requests edge towards the inconvenient or... absurd." 

Artoria nodded quietly, recalling her own circumstances among the eccentrics of the residents hosting her. The docile, distant Sakura that accompanied their evenings. Boisterous, yet somehow gentle Taiga that seemed to have, strangely enough, taken a king under her wing. And the kind, caring Emiya who'd hefted her broken, bleeding form into a future she'd thought discarded with her reliquaries. She could almost see the mop of red hair bouncing in the distance... 

She actually could, if she focused. 

_Wait._

It was. By the counter, deep in conversation with one of the staff.

"Emiya!" She yelled, smiling and uncaring of her display. There was no shame in warmly receiving a friend - and it came with oxymoronically unexpected surprise to realize she'd already counted him among the tiny, waning number. Artoria waved a hand at the boy who'd yet to turn to her voice. 

Father Kirei turned as well, eyes scanning the horizon of tables for the sudden guest she'd called out to. 

The conversation between Emiya and the staff continued until the latter interrupted their own response, tapped the boy's shoulder, and pointed at the table calling out to him. 

Sea green met golden brown, the former cordial and inviting. The latter baffled, suddenly transforming into near-immediate concern and relief. 

He made his way to the odd duo, head swiveling between the two comically, unsure who to address first. 

He'd settled on her. "Hanako." He began, the name still not-quite-right to everyone at the table. 

"Hello, Emiya." She greeted back, sparing a glance at the priest to smooth their introductions. 

"Emiya." The priest followed her lead, bowing briefly at the youth. He returned the courtesy, before speaking in his own tongue. Father Kirei's voice sounded deeper in his language, booming but not growling as she'd half-expected. Shirou answered in kind, incomprehensible syllables smoothly flowing from his mouth. 

It was another bitter reminder of her foreignness, in every sense of the word. As if her golden mane hadn't been enough of one. 

The King of Knights had learned quite early in her stay not to bother attempting to fathom anything in the exchange, and that she could learn far more simply scrutinizing the subjects conversing. It was no different from her rare meetings with the French throne's retinue. She'd oft decided her course of action in such exchanges gauging expressions, even before Lancelot could translate and advise her on how to proceed with his countrymen. 

Emiya had began first, words spewing at a breakneck pace - the lungs on the boy. The words came with hands shifting with his... it was best to say explanation.

Kirei replied slowly, deliberately, and Artoria still couldn't make out any of the meaning. Perhaps she wasn't meant to. There was a reason the two had decided to use their own tongue to converse, after all. 

The King of Knights shifted her focus of attack, assaulting the remnants of her plate with a vicious, pronged assault with a spoon of ceramic. The tofu fought valiantly, but the cubes of burning soy crumpled under her vicious onslaught. Another mouthful of milk came after, and the cycle continued until one of them started speaking something she could at least try to understand. It took quite a while to reach that point. 

Father Kirei finally gestured, long arms sweeping in the air, communicating something she couldn't process. It might have been to grab a seat, because Emiya quickly did just that, borrowing a backless stool from an empty table behind them to do so. Kirei called the same serving girl that stifled their laughter at Artoria's display - to her quiet chagrin - and instructed her in a matter. A few moments of patience and her reappearance revealed he'd ordered another platter, promptly pushing it before the boy. 

Shirou seemed to flush at the scent, fingers trying and failing to grab a utensil. The priest laughed, and finally, finally addressed her. 

"Sorry about that, child. It seems your friend Emiya has been searching for you a good while now." Kirei explained, downing the final bite. The front of his adornments had been unzipped from the strain of consuming his scorching meal. Emiya was still hesitating. The flushed redhead had began to pale, so much that the King of Knights suspected his hair might very well follow soon. 

"I couldn't follow your conversation." Artoria stated, mayhaps a bit more irked than she'd wanted to be. Her gaze drifted between the two expectantly. 

"Because he did not mean for it to be followed." Kirei reasoned, zipping up the front of his coat. "Not in a rude way - confessions are only permitted in privacy, and priests of any faith know better than to gossip. He was simply unfamiliar with how to converse with you in your true language." 

It was a fair enough reason that gave Artoria pause, eyes turning to the ceiling in bemused thought. She'd spoken to Taiga quite frequently, but never with Emiya, and certainly not Sakura. The King of Knights had genuinely conversed with her savior a grand total of twice in their scant few days together, and they'd never even done so when she'd been treated at the hospice. He'd simply greet her with a fresh bouquet, smile innocently, and leave to carry on with his duties. 

"And I to his. It is quite strange." 

"If I might be permitted to ask - and you're free to refuse if you wish - how did the two of you come about one another? I mean no offense, but I can't even imagine how the two of you even met, let alone care for each other so." 

_That was... quite a leap._

"Beg pardon?" 

"The poor boy's been searching since dismissal." Father Kirei explained, turning his head to note the hands pointed at the wall. "About, seven hours now? I believe." 

Emiya nodded sheepishly - so he did understand! Some of it, at least. 

"On foot, or by commute. Barging into places to ask about your whereabouts. How admirable of you, young man. Ineffectual, but admirable." 

Emiya nodded again - definitely not understanding the situation. Else he'd have been at least somewhat taken aback. 

Like she was, downing the final dredges of milk in her glass to buy time for a proper response. 

"His elder sister knew of my leaving for the day. Why wouldn't he have been aware of that?" 

Kirei turned to Emiya to ask something inscrutable, but definitely important. He looked sagely at the youth, before turning to her. 

"He was, but worried nonetheless. Could you have made your way back to your residence at any point tonight?" 

Of course. Even in her addled state a knight made for a competent tracker. Even without magical enhancements, experience was quite an instructor.

"But did you have a key on your person?" 

There was a lock on the residence, yes. And she'd lacked for a key, yes. And... 

Artoria could have well jumped the boundary of their wall, but it would have been more embarrassing to admit that then own her lack of foresight. 

Kirei passed on the news to their third, who'd briefly gone back to lucidity and smacked a raw palm on his forehead. "Fuji-ne..." 

"As for our discussions, child, I'd like for you to be made aware of my discretion. You've nothing to fear for me now, other than the tofu... some would say." 

His smirk came playfully, though Emiya seemed to take it at face value before brushing off his hesitation. 

Slowly, slowly... painfully, painfully slowly, the redheaded youth scooped a piping spoonful. Then opened his maw. It was as if he was teaching a newborn how to eat. Every gesture came mechanically until the bite touched his tongue. Emiya's face pinkened, then eventually flushed somewhere not far removed from the color of his hair. 

She'd preemptively offered her beverage, only to be reminded the cup had been drained to drops. Artoria beckoned to the staff for assistance, hoisting the emptied mug, only to be met by a shake of the head that was both confusing and inconvenient. Emiya spluttered along his suffering. 

"I'm afraid the milk was an exception, given your perceived... youth." The priest settled on the least offensive phrasing he could find. "They need it for a few of their dishes come midnight rush." 

"He might be dying!" It would have certainly felt that way. Artoria Pendragon, King of Knights, rose from her seat as quickly as possible, grace be damned. She grabbed a filled mug of water from a brown-haired girl by the corner, who'd hopefully be more agreeable with the requisition after the king's apology. 

Emiya drank deeply, still in what she'd known to be prodigious pain but somewhat aided. He'd taken to the restroom, presumably to wipe the remnants off his tongue with the never-ending taps. Father Kirei smirked after he'd left, though possessed the good grace to drop it after noticing Artoria's own lack of amusement. He coughed the awkwardness away into a meaty fist. 

"I asked the boy to join us for the meal. So that I might explain the little of your circumstances I've been made privy to - it would have taken time, after all. And... Emiya, was it? Seemed more than a bit winded from his search." 

"How considerate of you, Father Kirei." Deferring the task as kindness seemed wrong. 

"It's nothing, child. I'm just a bit selfish for a change in company is all."

The remainder of the meal passed smoothly and unremarkably, with the priest conversing in Japanese with her host while Artoria darted her eyes around the table. Emiya had surrendered after his first bite of hell, and seemed shocked when Artoria had laid claim to the untouched remnants. It wouldn't do to waste hospitality. Absolutely.

She'd managed to develop tolerance to the smoldering, so much she did away with the milk entirely. Mapu tofu was mouthwatering in more ways then one, and went well beyond that. Hot tears streaked down the king's face, which she dabbed away with the linen provided. A few more words were exchanged which she paid little attention to - lest she be reminded yet again of how unbelonging she was, and the dinner ends on a comfortable note. 

"I'm afraid my night's romp has come to a close, child." Kirei stated, squaring his shoulders and facing her. He slapped a few crisp notes on the table, weighing them down with a roll of coinage. Father Kirei did claim to be familiar with the area, but it was only now it registered just how much of a regular he was. "I hope everything was to your liking." 

"It was blessed, father." She shared her satisfaction with a content smile. He didn't return it, though the priest did grunt in acknowledgement. 

"Very well. I shall take my leave then." He rose to his significant stature, which some might have found intimidating. He bowed courteously. "Hanako. Emiya." 

The priest departed, door clinking in the gentle silence. Wind chimes rattled and fell. As did discomfort. 

It was easy to misconstrue the pair's shared, uncomfortable silence as rudeness or annoyance. It would have been pointedly removed from the truth. 

She would be ever grateful, and the debt would be repaid a hundredfold no matter the circumstances. 

Artoria Pendragon was not a king knowledgeable in a matter of tongues. She was more than proficient in the dialects of her kingdom, painstakingly learned through the attrition of many, many audiences. Even a modicum of Gaelic and French, thanks to the the pair of foreign knights in her inner circle. Gaelic came easier to her, though only the barest of visitors warranted Gawain's expertise and lack of practice stunted her learning. French ought to have been in her skillset from the number of courtly correspondences - Lancelot had even been an excitable teacher! - but the natives spoke far, far too fast for any sane person's comprehension, and attempting to match their rapid pace with slow deliberation would have made the King of Knights seem a dullard in their eyes, which would have been problematic for everyone involved.

Why was Nihongo so much harder than all of them? Even Merlin would have been at a loss, no matter how vehemently he may deny such. And it wouldn't do to speak her own - the endeavor would have been humiliating for her host. So she waited expectantly, and she hadn't been alone on the matter. The two sneaked rattled glances at one another, uncertain how to proceed and determined not to wound the other's pride - at least Artoria believed so.

Both blissfully unaware of how the exchange appeared to prying eyes. The staff hid their (falsely) knowing smiles in their fists, content to drink in the free entertainment. 

The matter dragged on a bit longer than Artoria's pride had been willing to openly admit, laid to rest when Emiya pointed at the door and pantomimed a gesture she couldn't exactly recall the meaning for but nodded knowingly irregardless. The pair left in docile silence. 

<\- ->

It had only been a short distance before Artoria realized Emiya's gait seemed lame. He hadn't began dragging his leg, which was a relief, but noticing the discomfort so readily on his face gave the king pause. 

Father Kirei had mentioned he'd been walking about for a good measure of time. Perhaps he'd stumbled somewhere he shouldn't have at the time. Or it might have been mere exhaustion from the exertion she'd unwittingly spurned him to do. Shame pooled at the notion of yet another sacrifice she'd forced someone else to take. 

She tapped him on the shoulder briefly, pointing at the offending limb once he'd turned to face her - her right, his left.

Emiya seemed confused. He'd tilted his head expectantly. 

"Your leg." She hazarded the word, hoping the meaning came across. She'd conversed with him then, and he'd honestly carried his own end of it rather well on the way to their abode. It might have merely been a matter of conviction, not competence.

The boy attempted to laugh it off, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck half-heartedly. "Fine. I'm fine." He'd utterly lied - shifting the weight on his heel until he could find the least painful position to rest at. If Artoria could spot such incidents through metal sabatons, she would notice them anywhere. She shook her own head in disagreement. 

"You don't have to worry." He assured, stifling a wince poorly as his heel bounced off the ground. 

_Such stubbornness._

She'd permitted in for the moment, given there had been nothing to mitigate it in the vicinity. That changed a few dozen paces away, with a wooden bench seated in eyeshot. Wrought, black iron curled for armrests and provided the spine of the structure. Artoria quickly dragged the fool there, and let her wounded pride die an ugly death.

"I'm tired." She lied, pulling his reluctant figure onto the inviting seating. He finally relented - relief flashed on his features so openly it was almost child-like, but she would not fault him for that. Not after everything. "Ok. We can stay here for a while until you feel better." 

The entire display was for his sake, but that didn't mean Artoria was barred from enjoying the reprieve as well. The speckled, cloudless skyline was just as breathtaking here. It was a far cry from her own lands - even the stars dotting the ethereal canvas were unfamiliar. They'd sat in a bout of comfortable silence until Artoria chose to break the stupor, finally deciding it preferable to determine where exactly they could speak on. The mutual quiet they'd accommodated had bloated into something absurd. 

Only for him to surprise her. "Are you okay?" 

"Yes." The answer seemed close enough, minus a good bit of complexity that wasn't worth dwelling upon. 

"Good. I'm happy." He answered, paused, then corrected himself. "Relieved. Sorry, I'm not very good at speaking like Taiga." 

"You're doing excellently." She assured, quite certain and uninclined to let the boy think less of his capability. "It's been days, and I can't speak Nihongo at all." 

"You don't have to. Lots of foreigners can't."

That didn't mean Artoria wanted to be among them. And she'd seen firsthand just how difficult it was for foreigners who had yet to acclimatize to the lands they'd been driven towards. How unforgiving her own subjects had been at their plight. How distantly she'd viewed the issue, shuffling the priority behind a lost war even when they suffered and grieved from her unfulfilled promise of protection. 

Yet another regret, exhumed and left to rot among the flies. 

"How did you find me?" The city was large, and there was little to follow. Even for a mage - which she doubted the boy was, despite his odd hair - it would have been a challenge to track her. The loudest of her magical implements had been snatched from her grasp by time and distance and banditry, and her own mana was quiet and unassuming unless she exerted herself. 

He smiled at her sheepishly. "I got lucky." 

_He got lucky..._

Which was absurd! The number of people in the city was staggering, along with the multitudes of buildings - some with never-ending floors! So much glass and stone and brick in staggering abundance, layered and sandwiching one another in concealing dimples on the map. At least their initial meeting was a matter of judgement. 

"I didn't even notice you inside of Koshuensaikan until you called me over." It didn't sound like the proudest of admittances. "That might have been the luckiest thing that's ever happened to me so far..." 

There was such a thing as genuinely kind people, and she'd thought he numbered among the ever-shrinking minority. But to do something so stupid and impulsive, without even considering the result coming to fruition... even she'd been careful during her reign, to at least ensure the sacrifices she'd made and forced on others had something to show for them.

_This was just... neglect._

Pointless neglect empowered by blind, dumb luck. She didn't think any less of the boy, but it was troubling to realize. And all for a half-dead stranger. 

"But why search for me?" 

"I was worried." He said earnestly. "Taiga didn't tell anyone where you'd gone off too, and I didn't have to help out in the Archery club today." 

Her mind caught at the familiar word. It struck her more abruptly than Artoria had expected - a holdover from... it was difficult to call it her past. "You're an archer, Emiya?"

"Yeah." He said gently. It was difficult to reconcile the image of the one that saved her with a warrior. He honestly looked rather scrawny for a combatant. "Sakura is there. She's really good. Shinji too." He said the latter without malice, which came as a surprise given their last interaction. Emiya had complicated friendships, it seemed. 

Artoria Pendragon never had much talent with bows in her life. It came as a rare consequence of eternal youth - her petite frame made longbows ungainly, even when she'd possessed more than enough strength to draw and nock even the heaviest of their kind. Manning a ballistae by her lonesome would have suited the king better, as comical as the image would have been to onlookers - mainly Merlin. 

"May I ask-" The question had never left the back of her mind. She'd muffled it for some inexorable reason she couldn't even recall, other than it being important at the time. "Why you saved me?" 

Emiya looked at her as if she was mad. 

"Because you were hurt." As if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And I could help. I could try. So I did." 

It very well might have been, going by his conviction alone. The thought was a warming one, and she smiled at the boy with the long-discarded sentiment. 

"Thank you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shirou stumbling into the restaurant that happens to have both Artoria and Kotomine is pretty contrived, yes, but the Fate series runs on narrative causality. At the very least, how it happened makes some sense.
> 
> Also, for reference Chinese food is pretty dairy free mostly. Kirei is just a bit of a trolling sadist here.
> 
> I'm currently trying to get Shirou's self-sacrificing nature across outside of HGW situations, because for a "Hero of Justice" with survivor's guilt, he doesn't do very much. Doesn't volunteer to help in any outreach organizations (if you don't count random favors for school people) and doesn't show his lack of self-regard outside of him getting brutalized by a servant. I think it feels completely in character he'd do something so abundantly stupid with no guaranteed results like, I don't know, searching for a single person in the entire city on foot.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry late post, but had stuff happen on my end. Liked the Yakuza games so much after 0 I bought Kiwami and Kiwami 2, finished both, and had my first ever crash mid-bouncer mission in the latter game. Thought I could brush it off, and tbh I was pretty amazed 3 games and a cumulative week's playtime got by without a single CtD prior. Unfortunately, something to nuked so my xbox one went kaput. Having it repaired got me a bit antsy and distracted, so I went for schoolwork to go somewhere between coping and productivity. Thanks for reading this so far.
> 
> Good news is my third story is almost done, so that means more time for F/D and my other work!

It was a short walk bathed in a starlight speckled sky, as Merlin would have said. Or something like that - inanely poetic, coined after a few mugs of drink to charm the ladies of the court. The old man always seemed to have dozens of sly statements, minted for every occasion. 

Artoria Pendragon never thought much of his indulgent descriptiveness, but the night was undeniably lovely. Cold but not harshly so, and the stars she'd dotted along with her foster brother were nowhere to be found. It would have been remiss of her to linger to drink in the view, given how much trouble she'd brought down on her hosts. 

She spared a glance at the boy beside her, eyes marred with exhaustion but smiling brightly all the same. The one who'd mourned a dying stranger, moving above and beyond and refusing to leave them to a pitiful fate they'd wrought on themselves. The king pondered on the little she knew of him, choosing her thoughts carefully, and quietly disregarding the need for her input.

The silence was comfortable. She'd let it be.

All the way down the winding roads, hushed into silence. Through the barred gate she'd seen a handful of times, unlatched and welcoming after Emiya fiddled with his keys. 

Broken with the open arms of the manor's other resident, darting towards them at a breakneck pace. 

Artoria sidestepped with ease. Emiya did not. 

Not that it mattered. 

Taiga's stance shifted low as she made contact with her adoptive sibling. The king of knights was uncertain if she'd intended to wrap the boy in her arms or flatten him with a charge, and simply conceded to attempting both mid-sprint. Before turning to her left and continuing, practically hefting Emiya on her shoulder. 

Artoria took another hop away, only for her back to glance off the wall. Bouncing the knight towards the very excitable woman...

Who'd caught her with contemptuous ease, arm wrapping around the knight's petite figure. Despite her veterancy and prowess, the Once and Future King of Britain found herself hefted off the ground. She did, after all, possess the stature of a maiden, with all the expected weight to boot out of her armor. 

Artoria's feet kicking out limply for purchase, careful not to accidentally strike Taiga's skirted knees even as her mortification mounted in the woman's surprisingly tight grip. 

"Shirou! Hanako!" The borrowed name still resonated distantly to her, though the squeeze that came after drew the king back to reality. 

"Fuji-nee!" 

The two surprise captives managed to struggle out of the teacher's grasp after a few moments. Emiya had stopped to catch his breath. 

Taiga had began addressing the boy in their tongue, and even without the faintest notion of the language Artoria could tell the older woman was upset. Emiya seemed to balk at her words, which seemed to be be gradually gaining in speed. 

"A-howw..." Artoria muttered, before pausing at her own lapse. She must have taken to repeating the few syllables she could discern from the conversation. Presumably mouthing the words as a child would. She'd hoped neither of them noticed her behavior. 

Of course, hope had never truly been with her to begin with. Why would it ever start now? 

"It means idiot." Taiga clarified offhandedly, eyes still fixed on the redhead. "Because that's what he is. Running around the entire city to look for a single person, without texting or calling anyone to help. Or at the least to grab a car." 

Artoria nodded blankly, knowing better then to ask what those words meant quite yet. 

"At least I managed to have people looking for her, and asked around where she might have gotten. And I was smart enough to take my ride, instead of wearing my outdoor shoes thin running around like a headless chicken." The teacher's hands had fallen on her hips, lips pursed in possibly faux-annoyance. It was hard to tell. 

Emiya seemed to disagree, shaking his head vehemently. "I did find her, though. Didn't I? Even with less time than you, I did it first." 

"Through sheer, blind, and dumb luck." Came the retort, and the guest of the household was inclined to agree. If her own men had resorted to such means for tracking their marks, she'd have their hides tanned for the grievous error in judgement. "Just because you're correct doesn't mean you're right." 

The statement must have been more sensible in Nihongo. They were speaking in English for her benefit, after all. Some things inevitably wouldn't translate well. 

Emiya grit his teeth. "But the reason she got lost was because of you! You told her to walk around!" 

Taiga's eyes blanked in thought, eventually stumbling out a response. "Y-Yeah!? She's not a prisoner here. Why wouldn't it be a good idea for her to stretch her legs?" 

"She didn't have keys!" 

"Okay, I might have forgotten some things..." 

He turned to the king of knights, who'd embarrassingly realized she'd genuinely been lost like a child at a tourney. She even looked the part, to her annoyance. 

"Hanako?" She nodded back in acknowledgement for him to continue. "Do you know where we live?" 

"Japan." Artoria supplied. 

"No, no. Where, spe... specifically, yes." 

_Like a county, then? Well..._

Her face fell straight against her open palm, hard at work hiding the king's shame. Three weeks of recuperation, and not a damn clue where she was. The amateur cartographer Sir Ector trained her balked at her own ignorance. 

"Where are we?" Artoria asked - to everyone in the room, herself included.

"Good question. Where are we, Taiga?" 

"Urk... tehe..." The teacher tried laughing off, now on the backfoot of their argument. Her own fist bopped at the side of her head playfully, to Emiya's lack of amusement. 

"Fuji-nee..." The king of knights could sense glowering with practiced ease, thanks to Agravaine's near-perpetual terseness. 

"M-Maybe I could have handled things a bit differently... just a teensy, teensy bit..." 

"Hai?" 

"But that doesn't change the fact you must be tired, right? From all the running around all day." Taiga deflected, continuing with her enthused tone. "On top of all that time on the archery range, too. Growing boy needs to rest too!" 

"I'm fine." He insisted, eyes blinking back exhaustion as if to spite his words. 

"Oh?" The woman's eyes seemed to glint. Evilly.

She uncoiled and sprung forward like what Artoria had long assumed to be her namesake, threatening to pounce on the poor boy yet again with her crushing hugs. 

He fell back with muted yelp, before glaring at Taiga the same way most children glared at their caretakers with. Artoria had grown intimately familiar with the expression - she'd worn it quite often in her youth, before Sir Ector tempered her vigorous nature into something worthy of kingship. 

"That's cheating!" 

"No, I proved a point." Taiga refuted, toothy smile stretched with enough mirth to make even Merlin jealous. "I can cheat all I want, Shirou." 

"Hmph." 

"Don't be sore about it... tehe..." The satisfaction was immutable on her face, though it softened quickly after. Taiga's playful tone followed suit, mellowing into something almost motherly. "But really, you did good. Or well. She got home thanks to you, and I'm happy about it, but you've got school tomorrow. I'll be taking responsibility for what I did, so don't worry about it, okay, Shirou? Get some rest, please." 

It seemed there was an understanding that came with that tone, as Emiya didn't argue any further. It was interesting to say the least, seeing siblings act so properly. The exchange was almost parental. Her own childhood with her brother Kay was one of mutual immaturity and fondness, but seeing the scene made the king wonder if the two of them ever could have been like this. She and Kay had been children together. Then they'd been adults together. It had never been anything like this. 

And the thought was nothing but idling curiosity. The king of knights let it linger briefly, before washing it off her mind like the memory it would soon cease to be. 

<\- ->

Their new guest seemed to be managing well enough, but Taiga Fujimura couldn't ever be certain. These kinds of things were... delicate. Handled with caution and care, or risk the consequences falling on the people who didn't deserve it. She didn't do delicate well, but the woman had started learning for her student's sake. Just coming at Shinji with a kendo stick would have been unprofessional, and for all she knew he might have been suffering too. People who hurt tended to be people who'd been hurting. Not always, but often enough that it wasn't safe to assume. 

"Don't you need to rest as well, Taiga? Being a teacher and such?" The girl reminded gently, taking the ceramic in her hands regardless. 

"Nah, I'm an adult now. Honestly it'd be weirder to have a restful night." Taiga half-joked, the mounds of paperwork awaiting her faculty table vaguely in the back of her mind. "Also, you could say this is me taking responsibility, I guess. For forgetting a few forgettable things." 

"I see." 

"So, Hanako." The teacher began, modulating her voice best she could. Even, level, and maybe even comforting. It might be a difficult topic. "How have you been so far?" 

Even to her, it sounded stupid. A teen who'd damn near been run through heaped on a pile of garbage in a foreign country like she belonged there... 

"I've been well, thanks to both of you." The answer came curtly, ought of politeness more than anything. The blond bowed briefly in gratitude, before sipping at her mug of warm tea.

"You didn't seem to remember much then." 

She'd read an article about that, published by a fancy doctor in her second language. It was printed on some pamphlets in the nurse's office, the language of choice indicating it was meant more for the staff's sake then any wandering students. Something about people getting hurt forgetting, because it made it easier somehow. 

Did she act the right way earlier? One glance at the girl said plenty, with her European features and dignified presence. Westerners were all about skinship, right? Hugs and comfort and reassurance - though Kiritsugu hadn't been particularly convincing when he'd imparted the knowledge all those years ago. 

But her experiences... and the gruesome trade she'd been part of. It might have been a mistake already. The girl's flailing might not have been playful as she'd made it out to be, and the possibility bothered Taiga more then she wanted to admit, even to herself. 

More doubt began dragging down the teacher's thoughts. She wasn't trained for this at all. But someone had to, and she'd seen firsthand how not talking about these things panned out. How Kerry's smiled always seemed weighed down by the corners of his mouth, like he wanted to frown but remembered people were watching. How Shirou threw himself at problems until either of them broke. How Sakura's shyness had warped into some form of twisted self-loathing.

"Is it alright if I ask again? In case things changed the last couple of days?"

"I'd no idea Emiya was a student." The girl before her admitted. "I've always assumed he was the breadwinner of the household." 

"One day, of course. He does part time work too, so I know Shirou would be more than capable down the line. That means in due time, after he graduates." Taiga amended, seeing her confusion at the idiom. "Right now that's technically my grandfather managing the finances, but Shirou's the one doing the budgeting, so it's not like he's totally inexperienced with managing a household." 

"I see. How admirable of him to begin at such an age." 

"You're not much older, though. Far as I can tell." Far too svelte a figure to be anything but a teen. Even the persimmons were heavier than her!

"I... suppose not." 

"May I ask about that? I know it's rude to ask a woman her age, but, well, you're still a girl..." 

Something flashed on her face. The best way to describe the expression was complicated. "I think I'd be... fourteen. Perhaps a bit more than that." 

She was so young. Younger than Shirou. Younger than Sakura too. 

"I see." She regarded the young girl with a polite smile, tucking her clenched hands gently behind her back and out of view. "I'm glad you're starting to remember." 

Hanako's - it still felt odd, referring to her as that - mouth parted in an 'O', losing her train of whatever thought currently railroading her mind. "No, I always knew my age. I believe I changed the topic. My apologies." 

"No, it's fine, it's fine." Taiga forced a laugh, hoping it wasn't as strained as she felt. She washed the falsehood down with a gulp of brew "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. I won't pry." 

"It does not bother me." She didn't sound very convincing. "And I owe some explanation, so please bear with me." 

Taiga smiled at the sentiment. At least the girl was trusting people - it might have been a good while since she'd had that. 

"I recall being from Britannia." 

"Britannia?" It sounded like the starting location of a video game. Probably a JRPG at that rate. Academic memories soon crept up on the forgetful teacher, and her eyes lit up at the recollection "Like Britain? Oh, you must mean Britain, right?" 

"So that's what they call it now..." 

"Always has been? As far as I know?" 

"My apologies. I don't believe I lived near any major cities then." 

"Still, that's pretty old-fashioned of you to say." She joked, hoping to ease some tension. Taiga wasn't entirely sure for who's sake. 

"Well, I was raised near a barn." 

"Really?" 

"We had neighbors who were farmers. On occasion, my brother and I helped them manage their hogs or carry their grain. Or perhaps the other way around." 

She gave the girl's soft figure a once-over, searching for any indications of hard labor. 

No calluses, no set musculature, no wrinkles... not even discolored skin. The girl could have easily been a model. 

"Wow! I really couldn't tell, looking at you." 

The girl leaned back - not too overtly, but she shifted her profile to hide as much as she politely could. Taiga endeavored not to bring up any more comments on her body. 

"It was a long time ago." 

"I see, I see." She picked at her next words carefully. What exactly would a lost teenager want most of all, far away from home? "Britain, huh. Do you have any family there?" 

The girl mumbled. 

"I'm sorry. I don't think I caught that, Hanako." 

"Had." 

From bad to worse. "I'm... sorry for asking. Please forgive me." 

She shook her head, insisting she wasn't slighted in the least. "It was a long time ago too." 

Another lie. Written all over her face like a scarlet letter, vivid and guilty and distractingly loud. 

What family would let their child be taken? A dead one - and it was clear as day what led to that point. It was absolutely disgusting, the lengths people went for profit. Or other gratifications beyond that... the thought made her want to vomit. 

She needed to warn her grandpa. His people needed to be careful dealing with these animals. 

But that was their problem, and the girl - the child - was her charge. Anger on her behalf would do nothing to help. 

"I'm glad you trust me this much, Hanako. I can't imagine it was easy on you." 

But she didn't want any future victims. 

"But I need to ask you something else, okay?" 

<\- ->

"Understood." Artoria returned, trying to grasp where the conversation was headed. 

Taiga's face had turned strange. Bothered and strained and sad and so many things unsuitable to her usual joviality. The educator began, caught herself, and attempted to continue with the question. The hesitation was infectious. 

"I'm sorry, but I need to ask. Does the name 'Mordred' mean anything to you?" 

<\- ->

It had to, given it was all she was mumbling about. Even with Shirou's unfamiliarity with the language, the fact he'd remembered her saying them spoke volumes. When she'd been catatonic and feverish, mumbling things in a delirium. It was the only word he could make out from the slurry of aimless murmurs.

It was passing familiarity on her own part. European knights had their own appeal in Japan the same way samurai and ninjas did in the west. It was just different enough to be distinct, but perfectly familiar to appreciate. Taiga Fujimura honestly appreciated Charlemagne's knights more (Astolfo's stories were always a bit crazy!) but most people stuck with Arthurian classics. Mordred - the knight of treachery. The one that ended the golden reign of a king out of zealotry - so the legend says, anyhow. 

It could have been a street name - though as far as street names went, it was a lame one. More information would have been ideal, given the best she could do was tell her grandfather's people to keep an ear out for the name. 

"No. Not at all." The girl refuted, voice edged with ice. Sharp and cutting and painfully, painfully fragile. She lowered the mug of tea on the table carefully, placing it before intended. The cup rattling shattered the tame, moonlight silence. Hanako grit her teeth at the obnoxious sound.

"You were mumbling the name when he found you. We can't make any sense of it. I was hoping you could help us clear the search." 

As uncomfortable as it might be, maybe she'd still help for her own closure. Stop others from being victimized the same way - the same children younger then even Sakura...

"I... no. That name is dead to me." She was shaking now. Her hands, at least, wrapped around the green mug. The rest of her was ramrod straight, fixed in place like a doll nailed down. 

"So you do know it." Taiga fought the urge to drop the topic then and there, loathing herself for continuing almost as much as she did for hesitating. Disgust either way moving forward, and shutting her eyes to it would be nothing short of utter disrespect. "Please, anything you could offer would make the world of a difference-" 

It was a horrid sound - shattered porcelain and muted shock.

"Hanako!"

Instincts long unused sprang back to life at the instant, beelining into the bathroom for the kit under the sink and returning as fast as her legs could carry her. 

"Open your hand." She ordered, scouring the kit for tweezers and antiseptic after flicking the lights on.

The girl didn't respond. Taiga paused her search to discover why - she was transfixed with the injury, staring at her hand like she'd never seen blood before.

"Hand!" 

She finally realized her error in judgement, offering the limb and digits for proper scrutiny. Taiga rested it on her lap, careful not to antagonize any existing injuries. 

An ugly, green shard jutted out the center of her palm. Smaller bits of ceramic marred in increments by the side. A borderline-microscopic shard half-buried itself into her index finger, trickling light red blood like a torn drip bag.

It was painstaking work, but the process went smoothly. The largest chunk came out with a pained yelp, but everything else was managed in gritted silence. The fragments rested on the towel she'd procured on the way back, jade green flecked with bubbling red like grotesque Christmas decorations. 

Now the actual worst part: the antiseptic. It really, really didn't get easier the more you did it. Adults were liars like that. 

She poured the disinfectant on the whole of the girl's hand, practically hearing the sizzle of tormented flesh at the treatment. "Sorry about this." 

If she'd been tremoring then, it had long turned into actual shaking. Her hand was twitching, and Taiga had began pinning it down by the wrist just to make she couldn't hurt herself more by moving. "I promise it'll be over soon." 

And it was, thankfully. The bleeding stopped, and Taiga had set the bandages tightly enough. Luckily, broken tea mugs weren't anywhere near dangerous as Shirou's weirdly harmful relationship with lightbulbs - pulverized glass was a tedious thing to deal with.

Still, it had been a mistake to pry, reasoning be damned. No abject fear, or hunching down, or folding onto herself like those overrated television shows always said girls did when they were scared. Her posture turned painfully stiff, hands folded neatly on her lap. Like moving itself was dangerous, and she'd chosen to hold still with as much grace as she could. Teeth nibbled at the girl's bottom lip. Taiga hoped she wouldn't cut herself again. 

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked." What a waste. This was why people left this to professionals, wasn't it? Amateurs - no matter how well-intentioned - only made it harder for everyone. 

"No, I... I was mistaken. Perhaps I could discuss it after putting a bit more distance with the memory." Why was she apologizing? 

"I promised I wouldn't pry, but I did it anyway, and you're hurting because of that." 

"I did this to myself." The voice came matter-o-factly. It didn't belong to a girl. It shouldn't have - not one so young. "I'm sorry about the mug." 

"I don't care about the mug." Why did she? Watching a girl slice their hand open and worry about property damage was... no, it wasn't just a cultural clash. 

"You should. I've been a terrible guest. Useless and burdensome." She clenched her other hand, thankfully untouched by the ordeal. The knuckles on it were whitening awfully fast, though. "I've infringed on your hospitality far too much. It's shameful." 

"That's for us to decide, right?" An amateur, yes, but even Taiga could see a spiral tighten. Circular reasoning used just to hurt yourself. The perceptiveness came with experience, and most of the Emiya household were prone to bouts of it. Jarring them back to reality would probably work best - no point convincing them of whatever they'd convinced themselves. "If you become a burden on him, I'll kick you out myself." 

She seemed taken aback by the statement, eyes diverting and marginally wider than they had. A sliver of a smile crept up the corner of her mouth, teasing it up. "Thank you for your candor, Taiga."

"Now that you know I haven't said anything like that, can you cut yourself some slack?" 

"I don't quite understand your meaning." 

"I don't like seeing kids hurting. Or anyone, actually, but kids the most." They never really deserved it. They didn't understand why. "You've been hurt plenty already, and I'm scared for you and the people just like you. Sakura's less then a year away from your age, y'know? I can't imagine her going through what you did. That's why I asked, even if I knew damn well it might hurt you in the process. And it was a mistake. Please don't look down on yourself for that - you've got your whole life ahead of you." 

It didn't have the desired effect - if anything, she looked even more troubled. "How selfless. And yet all I do is stifle your attempts at kindness... you deserve a better guest." 

"Like I said, that's up to me to decide, right? And I say you're fine - are you questioning that?" The girl's logic was archaic sometimes. It vaguely reminded the teacher of her own brush with history - with all that weight on knights and ninjas and sacred hospitality and myths. Maybe that was where her mind was at. 

"No... the host is always right." 

Bingo. 

"So let me worry about this." Taiga doubted the statement would set in, but it might well be a start. "Plus, I've got something for you." 

"I couldn't..." 

_Such a stubborn girl._

The exasperated woman glanced at the wall behind her, rolling her eyes politely out of sight. 

"The host is never wrong, right?" She wagged a finger for emphasis, the other hand prompting the gift - tentatively accepted. 

<\- ->

It was a book, thin and leather-bound. The king of knights could still smell the ink off the paper, and the pages glistened with the sheen of what she could only assume was beeswax. Artoria sifted through its contents, disappointed by the text yet again remaining incomprehensible. 

"Thank you, Taiga. I'll be sure to read it once I learn the language properly." 

"Pfh." It was followed by another stymied laugh. Taiga's hand grabbed the literature, sorting through same pages, then returned it with a quirked smile, sparing a knowing glance at the item.

The first thing Artoria saw was her own visage, pale and hazy. She'd never had a painting taken - what with her identity being a kept secret - but she'd could imagine that's how she'd appear within them.

Strange... paintings took hours at best, and she'd never recalled posing in that borrowed gown. The king had risen wearing it in the hostel, but nothing beyond that sprung to mind. 

And nothing likely would quite yet. Everything was magecraft, it seemed. Best not question the oddities.

"It's a passport, silly." Some very crucial information remained omitted in the exchange - most importantly of them all was meaning

"I was raised in the countryside." Maybe that explanation would suffice to draw one out? Using any more would be challenging, to say the least. 

"Under a rock? Well, it's like a citizenship card, but it lets you go places around the world. Had to doctor a picture to work with - sorry we couldn't get you pose for them properly, but we needed to get started on it quickly. My family managed to sort you out as a Japanese citizen for the time being, so going around and using things won't be as difficult for you." Like a status symbol, then? Legitimizing her presence. "I'm just glad Shirou didn't notice this when he started complaining about the stuff that slipped my mind. Grandpa would have... er... blown a gasket... yes." 

"Right."

In that brief window in time, the two shared their confusion at the turn of phrase, hoping the other was more familiar with the term. 

"But yeah, you'll be a citizen here now. And I'll look into where we could send you - maybe you might have some family in Europe. a cousin or aunt or something distantly related. I'm sure they miss you, and it'd be wrong to keep you here while they're worrying." 

No. Everyone she knew was dead and buried and forgotten. 

But it was everything. Her kingdom. Being buried there eventually was a selfish desire she'd long since abandoned. 

"It was my home." 

"And we'll get you there, soon enough. We just need to make sure to contact the right people to receive you - it wouldn't sit right with me to just plop you in the middle of Europe. It'd be no different from what happened to you here." 

"But why?" 

She'd failed. Everything crumbled and burned away. She was fortunate to even be alive, and they insisted on providing so much more than that. Even legitimizing her in their nation - a wanderer offering nothing. It was stupid and selfless and... where to even begin repaying the debt?

Her head spun, light and airy, thoughts growing ever-distant and disconnected. Shame wracked Artoria's body with a fervency she'd forgotten in her youth, multiplied a hundredfold - a king's ingratitude. Sullying the few values she'd carried forward unscathed, marred with her own hopeless lechery of their hospitality. 

<\- ->

Heaving, shaken breaths. Barely-held restraint and confusion. Her gaze had turned glassy and her hands palmed the sides of her head, nails digging into the blond mane. 

"Where do I even begin? My debt goes beyond my life." 

"Don't worry about it." Taiga had no plans on collecting, and the thought certainly wouldn't even cross Shirou's mind. "Just pay it forward to someone else." 

"That... that simply won't do. I owe them naught, but..." 

The girl paused, gulping down a strangled thought. Her eyes drifted beneath her bangs, and the voice came low and clipped.

"Do you have need of anything? Either of you. Any at all?" 

"Nonsense, you're a guest. Let us worry about that." 

"But..." The words cracked at her throat. She'd turned her gaze to Taiga. 

_Helpless, pleading._

It settled in her eyes, blinding and blinded. 

The teacher could hazard a guess why, and her own mistake finally set in. It was painfully obvious, in hindsight. 

She'd seen it before, after all. With a particular girl in pigtails, who'd stomped her foot and complained when Taiga had taken the liberty of waiving off the homework she'd missed in her absence. It would have saved them both time, and Rin still seemed unwell the next day. 

But it was about proving a point - that she was capable and didn't need any 'coddling'. Maybe their guest was no different. 

It must have been humiliating for her. Taiga had been addressing the wrong issues. 

"Sakura's been staying at their home a lot more often recently, so Shirou might be a bit overwhelmed with the workload. I'd help but... well..." It didn't need much elaborating. For all the many things Taiga was, homemaker certainly wouldn't be among them. "Just the usual plates and dusting and sorting. I'm sure you can handle stuff like that with him, right? 

The girl brightened - microscopically, from dimness to dullness at best. But it was there. "I can learn." 

"That's great! Shirou loves teaching people what he knows." And maybe he could actually practice putting his English to use now! A lot of their language courses focused far too much on the technical. And of course Kiritsugu only speaking to her in English never really applied to Shirou - it was probably the closest he ever got to spoiling someone. "But don't pressure yourself too much. Everyone learns it at their own pace - some don't even learn altogether!" 

Taiga stopped just shy of pointing at herself, flaunting a cheeky grin that was thankfully reciprocated in the girl's own gentle way. It was nice to end the night on a high note, after everything that transpired.

"I do have classes tomorrow, so I hope you don't mind my clocking out for now - I mean leaving, by the way." She amended, once the turn of phrase went over their guest's head. "Have a good night, Hanako." 

"Artoria." 

"Come again." 

"I remember my name." Artoria insisted, stone faced but painfully inept at lying - even worse than Shirou, somehow. It was almost impressive. "Artoria." 

it was a big step forward - Taiga wouldn't ruin it with some petty doubt. "Artoria... it's a pretty name." 

"Thank you." 

"Would you mind if Shirou or Sakura knew about it?" For all she knew, this was one of those 'in confidence' things people kept hush about. "Your name, I mean." 

The girl - Artoria - balked at the possibility before shaking her head. "No. Not at all." 

"I'm glad. Thank you for trusting me. Goodnight, Artoria." 

The name certainly flew off the tongue better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai means yes in Nihongo, btw. I won't make a habit of breaking down the language like this, but I will be using it to remind people which of who's first language is what on occasion.
> 
> Also, if you've ever gotten glass at ANY part of your body, you'll probably agree with the realism. Ceramic is just shiny glass, in terms of cutting pain. You really, really don't want that in your body.
> 
> And Shirou, most probably, has pulverized a lightbulb trying to reinforce it. My headcanon, at least.
> 
> I'm glad I can finally drop the Hanako, after all this time. Part of me regrets that, but it could have been worse - could have called her "Blondie".


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back! Sorry it took so long - quarterly academics demanded crunch time and who am I to yeet my grades into the void? We've got a tiny window where I've got nothing on my mind but this, video games, and the number forty-one, then a slightly bigger window where we get handheld for the next quarter.
> 
> Also, to (kinda) address the discrepancy between the 5th century and 15th century perspectives on the fic, I believe I have a solution on hand for that. It may not be a good one, but the question wasn't too important to begin with. I'll be sticking with the random hops in century list I did for expediency. It's alright to pick little details that don't add up, but nitpicking subtext might detract from your general enjoyment. Also, nitpicking subtext is the author's job :P

Rousing came with great difficulty for the displaced king, limbs splayed out like a roosting chicken and well-kept golden mane currently a puddle of messy gold cascading onto the floor. Exhausted, Artoria Pendragon forced the feeling away, rolling her lithe form until her rear found delicate purchase on the wood, quickly hoisting her bone-tired figure to a graceful seat. 

A hand - uninjured - clutched above the flesh of her stomach, failing to mitigate the relentless broiling of her innards. The other rested itself on her lap, digits twitching to curl into the light like a sunflower. 

It had been idiotic to lose herself so openly. Such terrible form for anyone, much less a guest, much less a king. Beautiful ceramics crushed in frantic grip, burying shards into a once-pristine palm. Artoria had peeled away the bindings late into the restless night, noting the tiny scars that stood starkly against the creases in her hand. 

They rumors had been false, all those centuries ago. Avalon had never halted bleeding - there simply hadn't been a moment the kingdom could witness. It wouldn't have been boastful to admit no enemy of her kingdom had matched her. Her knights - a tongue-tied Frenchman in particular - would have been exceptions if they'd pressed the advantages in their sparring bouts, but (disappointingly) none were keen to strike the king of Brittania. The first opponent who'd drawn her blood had also been the last.

Until now, of course. Spilling blood to shame a household... how beneath her, and yet there she remained. 

The day sprung forth mundanely - the household had matters to attend to: Emiya with his schooling and Taiga's own role educating. Words were passed between the three with a byplay of languages that should not have intermingled at all, and Artoria bore the odd affair with the confused grace she'd cultivated dealing with emissaries in her court. She'd refrained from mentioning the churning pains - they duo seemed in quite the rush, and Artoria was certain either of the two - both, likely - would interrupt their critical-looking tasks to coddle her. She had been a king, damnit! Of a strong nation - pampered royalty was for the French!

The outburst went quietly, unspoken. They'd communed to break the fast - raw eggs, steamed rice, and rather pungent beans Emiya had called "Natto", or something to that effect - and neither of them seemed taken aback when she'd repeated their word for grace. Progress in the tongue, no matter how pointless, remained inordinately satisfying. 

Then they'd left, Taiga on her yellow... motorcycle, was it? Emiya sat behind on the mechanical steed, arms wrapped around the older woman's waist tightly. 

Even with his face buried in a matching dark helm, turned away from the king and nearly buried in Taiga's back, she could sense the tension rolling off the boy's body like musk. It seemed he was just as unaccustomed to the transport as she was. There was a comfort to be taken in that. 

Which left Artoria Pendragon, Once And Future King of Brittania, utterly bored and in mild discomfort from the tugging knots she'd maintained her silence on. She sat on a soft cushion by their knee-high dining table, knees knocked together and lost in thought. 

It was a simple matter of forgetting to ask. They'd permitted her to aid the household, but what matters that entailed remained muddled. It wouldn't do assuming anything of her hosts, lest more matters go awry. And as embarrassing as it was to note, things likely would. 

Their plating was fragile: fine ceramic - the gorgeous type that ruptured in one's grasp, or cracked from the slightest of falls. Eating off them was a simple matter, but handling the delicate frames without risk would have been... challenging, to say the least. Artoria had dented pewter bowls in her own attempts. Decades ago admittedly (centuries ago, for the world, she supposed), but her inexperience in matters of the household had more cause for concern now than when she'd been a doe-eyed youth. 

And the rest of the affairs she simply lacked the awareness for. Sweeping the chambers, washing clothing, where to even begin was elusive by her lonesome. Camelot had attendants for those matters, and when the round table left for their knightly duties there was simply no need for such petty indulgences. 

Which left stunted, awkward silence to a very lonesome girl. Still troubled by the discomfort in her belly that only seemed to burgeon with time.

Perhaps it had been the spices in the meal with the kindly priest. She'd more than eaten her fill, after all. The taste had been overwhelming in a complicated way - one she couldn't recall to be entirely unpleasant. It went beyond salt and spices and herbs, or simply the one's she'd grown accustomed to in her lifetime. 

Like those deplorable root crops - Merlin proudly identified, for everyone who hadn't asked - Gawain had returned that loathsome day. Half-green and spotted with brown, churned into what could generously be called tasteless slop. Artoria could still remember how the ordeal left the round table: troubled and retching. 

The king blanched at the possibility of a reenactment. Cleaning sick off the nice floors would most certainly not be her fate. 

Though it seemed the pain would be. Her cultivated posture gave way to a slump, then a slouch, and perhaps a good deal of other words Artoria couldn't bring herself to think of. It ended on the floor, straddling chest-pressed knees like a newborn babe and sweating profusely into the matting. 

Was this death? It reminded her of Mordred's near-fatal blow, but far, far fiercer. Spots seemed to dance lazily in her vision, flickering between bouts of blinding pain. 

It may have been the tofu killing her. Which still made for a preferable final meal.

Everything was, compared to those blasted potatoes... 

<\- ->

The pain was sharp, hot, and on the wrong end of stabbing. Her abdomen ached unforgivingly, like twine stretched far beyond fraying. 

<\- ->

The heat grew unbearable. Artoria could feel her skin flushing, and a cursory glance revealed the unhealthily pale pallor developing. 

<\- ->

The Once and Future King had lost her appetite. This revelation in particular concerned Artoria the most. Even the blow that rendered her near-death hadn't robbed the king of her stomach. Perhaps... this truly was the end of it all. How underwhelming. 

<\- ->

Rattling locks, followed by an unlatching door, jolted Artoria to life. A half-life by now, but a life nonetheless. She sprang into place with her usual poise, knees knocked, hands on lap, smiling at the first entrant of the evening, and desperately failing to ignore the unceasing agony heralding her demise. 

Purple eyes stared back, widening a fraction before darting away in discomfort. A damp umbrella rested against a potted rack. 

_Sakura, was it? The girl with the terrible brother._

Artoria attempted the name while omitting the latter thought, earning naught but a tacit acknowledgement from the youngling. 

The girl - Sakura, she reminded herself - wore discomfort in suits, branding her beautiful features with hesitant tension. Most of it seemed directed at her, if the deliberate avoidance of the room's sole attendant meant anything at all. "I'm afraid the others haven't returned yet, Sakura. Do you need any assistance?" 

The words - delivered with more than a passing, pained wince from the speaker - seemed to capture her attention. Some of the distance gave way to what Artoria could only surmise as concern, and the youth said something that eluded her. It sounded kindly enough, though not nearly as comprehensive as ideal.

"I don't..." Artoria began, speaking slowly and clearly. It didn't matter - the only thing that seemed to register on Sakura's face was ever-familiar confusion. Taiga was most certainly an exception regarding languages, while Emiya could manage passably enough - likely due to the former's presence in his life. Even Father Kirei was strange for his fluency alone. It seemed the rest wouldn't be so conveniently manageable conversing with. 

_Wa.... something..._

Taiga had taken to teaching her - nothing beyond the practical and rudimentary. A handful of words to absolutely butcher, but some semblance of a verbal arsenal regardless. It was a key phrase all foreigners ought to know, in as many tongues as they could. 

_Wa.... Wa...._

"Wa-ka-ra-nai." Artoria said, slowly, hoping the pacing could make up for pronunciation. 

_I don't understand._

Truer words had never been spoken. She gave a shallow, awkward bow to emphasize the point before continuing with the second most important phrase. 

_Go..._

"Go, men?" It emerged more like a question than it ought to have, mated with an awkward mumble for good measure. 

Hopefully, the apology worked as intended. Otherwise, Artoria would have to learn the right words rather soon. Between flashes of heat and throbbing aches, of course. 

Thankfully she didn't seem mistaken. Or Sakura was responding with infallible politeness. Either or, at any rate. 

"S-Sorry." The young girl stuttered out, still refusing to meet the former king's gaze. Sakura had taken a seat by the table, twiddling her fingers absently to gently pass the disquiet. Artoria mirrored the motion, tracing little dips along the pinkened crisscrosses freshly marring her palm. 

There was no point in conversing, given the divide. Artoria could hear the sheer disparity with her fumbled mutterings despite careful practice, and while Sakura fared better in her own attempts (which said more about the king than the girl) the pointed quiet made her willingness to do so unquestionable. 

Silence needn't be cumbrous, though this one certainly was. Time passed like stones in a wolf's belly - that was to say, not at all. At least the old wives' tale had been entertaining. 

The suffering had yet to relent. Simply swallowing into itself like an Ouroboros, infinite and unwanted. 

Merlin had always said food would have been the death of her. If the king had any regrets to her passing, it would have been proving her advisor right. 

Artoria flopped, for lack of a better word. Or simple appropriateness, loath the king was to admit it. Akin to an overburdened squire on their first march - memories of accompanying her stepfather to his tourneys deluged her exertion-addled head. 

Kay had always been obnoxiously strong for his age, and she'd been a girl a few years his junior. Of course he'd be able to carry more! 

He needn't have been so pleased about it, though. It wasn't _that much_ of an achievement. 

Hands tugged at her shoulders, barely registering. Her own remained wrapped snugly to her torso, stifling whatever the hell it was threatening to burst forth. Whoever it was - Sakura, the king reminded herself yet again - pulling her stiff shoulders seemed to have succeeded in righting her. Or they'd lain down to commiserate as well...

No, the door stood taller than it did wide. She was seated after all. 

The girl's eyes had finally settled to return her own, though far more troubling than expected. There was a wildness to them even she could see, spluttering words that seemed quite important, if a bit incomprehensible, and continuing to do so even as the world grew muffled - just a tad - to Artoria Pendragon. 

Sakura had stopped speaking, now gaping at her with great expectance.

The king blinked back blankly. 

Sakura pointed downwards to the floor, where the king had been failing to rest. 

Nothing but wooden flooring and a damp lap pillow. 

Sakura did so again, fingernail tracing the cushion. There seemed to be flecks of blood staining the sheets. 

That seemed rather nauseating a detail to note. Strange girl. 

Artoria looked at the strange girl. Then back at the pillow, before unbridled lucidity assaulted her dazed self. 

She didn't scream - kings never ought to lose their composure so petulantly. The temptation to do so was muted into silence. The king of knights stiffened, gingerly lowering a finger past the hem of her borrowed skirt, which quickly froze - along with the rest of her being - in mortifying revelation. 

She gaped back at the young girl, posing the unspoken question, pain momentarily forgotten. 

Sakura nodded sagely. 

This was... horrible. The hand came up slicked, and she dared not look. It was easier to curl them into a fist and perish the thought until there was no other choice. 

What did Gwenyvere do when these awful flushing spells struck? She must have dealt with them somehow. They'd been married for years, so she must have.

Well, she retreated to her quarters. Which was convenient then, Artoria supposed... 

Sakura had taken to ruffling through her belongings, meticulously sorting an array of complicated-looking items. There was something that vaguely resembled fabric, and a little pod that shone in the light, and a great many things she wouldn't even begin trying to describe. 

The purple-haired girl halted her search, coming onto something stiff, translucent, and somewhat reminded the king of sheepgut. It was shaped into what Artoria could best call a tiny bell - like the one Merlin kept on the table of his study. She handed the parcel to the king, who'd deferred her judgement to the wisest person in the room. 

_What to do with it?_

Artoria eyed it warily, other bloodied hand pressing on her stomach and careful not to stain the fabric. It didn't seem the type of item Gwenyvere would make use of.

In her distraction, Sakura nudged at her hand with a closed fist. 

Unfurling it revealed a... would napkin have been right? It looked like linen in some regards at least, and smelled pleasantly perfumed. 

What exactly was she peddling? 

Another search, ending briefly on some roughshod illustration. It showed a feminine, if indistinct, figure in various poses. The sight reminded Artoria of how paintings always began - with the sketched, oblong heads and tentatively roughshod frameworks. She eyed the curiously again - it was happening quite a lot in these past few minutes. 

Just like the assailing soreness, which came into yet another unbearable wave. The king doubled over again, bloodied hand unfortunately propped on the floor for support. She'd make haste to scrub it off, once the episode of womanhood passed. 

<\- ->

Sakura Matou was not having a pleasant day. Not in the least. 

Sempai hadn't come back from school - still at the archery range, probably roped into cleaning duty again by her brother or Mitsuzuri or literally anyone who'd ask. Fujimura wasn't there too - maybe she had paperwork again. She always complained about having too much of it. Between other bouts of complaining about it. 

Which would have been a bit of a shame, but nothing too out of the ordinary. They'd be a bit late, which would leave some time for her to prepare something nice for dinner. Pork Katsu would be a good choice with the leftover white rice, and they had plenty of Miso soup leftover since Sempai and the other girl had eaten out the last night. 

Which might have been a bit more troubling than him being late, but Sakura was nothing but patient. 

Until of course, she'd stumbled onto the foreign beauty by her lonesome. Heaped on the floor messily, springing to attention after Sakura had taken off her shoes. Fresh from the absolute torrent outside, she hadn't been in much of a considerate mood. 

Her first thoughts on the sight weren't exactly been pure - the pink, sweat-sheened tint of exertion, and the hands tucked into her waist reeked of impropriety. The dampness of the blond's skirt made the problematic matter even worse, implying all sorts of things she'd rather not think about. Doing it in their living room, of all places...

Until the foreign girl collapsed on her side, trickling fluids onto the floor. Some of the dark stains seemed to have dried - how in the world did she not notice?

Instinct set in, despite personal feelings towards the intruder to her life. When a girl was bleeding, you do everything you can to help them stop it. No exceptions. 

She was a light thing - probably even younger than her - with slim, petite shoulders that tilted up with just a bit of prompting. Soft as a pillow - concerning: Sempai liked soft things, or just things he could protect. Sakura shook the thought off in favor of the more immediate problem bleeding in front of her. 

Telling her was out of the question - no point even trying. Taiga could do it easily, and Sempai could get by talking with those foreign students well. As would her sister, and Mitsuzuri. Or anyone else beyond her and her brother, really. 

She leveled a finger at the floor discretely, hoping it got across. It didn't - naturally. Tracing the cushion was the best she could do... very, very careful not to touch any of the blood or... discharge. 

It took time - more than it should, realistically - but recognition finally, blissfully set in for the blond. Was this her first? 

It seemed so. There were a lot of questions written on the girl's face, but most of them could be answered with a nod. The blond's expression shifted to an entire complicated spectrum, rather than try something to stem the bleeding or at the very least _not_ bleed over the cushions. 

In hindsight, cups were probably out of the question. Even her own sister wasn't too appreciative of using them, for reasons that no longer applied to Sakura. Tampons were right out by the same logic. Pad it was, then. 

Of course it had been pointless to assume the teen knew what she was doing. It had only set in for Sakura once the girl started sniffing the pad. The instructions on proper use use went either unnoticed or ignored, which given the last display should have been expected. 

Wordlessly - and it would have been wordless even if the two could understand one another - she grabbed the girl's hand, pulling the foreigner up. 

Admittedly it had been a mistake - wrong hand. Sakura ignored the unnerving sliminess in her grasp, focusing on her duty as a woman as they walked briskly. Taiga definitely had a few warm compress bottles in her room. Heating them up wouldn't take too much time, but the girl needed a better place to change. 

The bathroom would have to do - tiles would be much easier to wipe down - and a demonstration would be in order for everyone's sake. Sakura wouldn't have put it past the girl to shove the pad up her nose at this point. Hopefully she'd get the message without needing to do it for her. 

<\- ->

It had been the one dream left for the fallen princess - to die somewhere bright and beautiful, with a gentle sky and glowing warmth to bask in. So of course that had been taken from her - even the pettiest of ambitions, discarded in the rain. Her own despair polluted by the world's own, denying even her grief a modicum of privacy. 

Dragging her frail, broken form across the earth, Medea of Colchis struggled. 

Blood had stopped pouring from her wound - a terrible sign for servants. When even the earth no longer humored their poor facsimile of life, there was little left for them to endure with.

Caster fought to turn to her side, to at least see the clouded sky as her yearnings melted away. The effort had grown from arduous to painstaking, and she'd resorted to rocking her failing phantasm of a body just to gather the means to do even that. How pathetic. 

The rain dribbled down relentlessly, trickling filthy water down her exposed orifices. She coughed and hacked to to little avail, body weak and shuddering from the cold grasp of Gaea - no longer tethered by a master, her very existence seemed to crush and convulse as the world fought to forget her. 

The patter of rain her sole companion... she'd turned her head to the side, hood sheltering her ears from the rain. Medea took a greedy breath, then drank into the sight before her. A flower, purple. Bent at an angle, battered into the dirt. It faced her with the same blossom, brilliance subdued but brilliant all the same. 

Perhaps the gods had been generous to her in this life. 

Medea of Colchis laughed bitterly at her own joke, ignoring the lightness threatening to tug her to fragments in the void. 

Footsteps on soft earth tapped gently into her sharp ears, and despite herself a flicker of loathsome, burdening hope spurned in her heart of shattered stone. 

_Perhaps..._

The poor soul might meander by, while the prana dwindled and her existence ceased to be. She could... take it. Some semblance of strength - even the weakest of beings had something to take from them. She'd been the rule often enough to know it to be true. Always something to take. Always something worth taking from. 

So they did, and so she did. 

A pittance of strength, but strength nonetheless.

Nothing but time bought for a dream worth killing for. Everything to someone as selfish as her. 

Water splashed somewhere before her. The footsteps drew so tantalizingly close. 

She readied her magics. A siphon of sorts, thrumming gently at her fingertips. Hungered and desperate as their wielder.

A quick death - the only mercy she'd grant. One she'd nearly been denied. Medea owed them at least that much. 

Charcoal eyes framed in round glasses, expression stern. Suited in dark green, untouched by the rain. 

Two hearts - one unused, the other counterfeit - skipped a beat. 

"What are you doing?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saber's first period, end quote. 
> 
> So, my argument for this is... like... imagine 30 years (I think) of delayed periods cumulatively screwing your inexperienced ass over. Never considered how agelessness could lead to eternal fertility (I think) or complete lack of periods, now that I think about it.
> 
> Also, the weirdest headcanon I've ever come up with (thanks to writing the fic) is that Sakura carries all kinds of hygiene supplies to help her sister out when things go sideways. Just seems sensible, caring, and a bit invasive - all things Sakura!
> 
> Shoutout to UBW abridged for absolutely spoiling Sakura's character (in the best way) in Fate. I was trying to keep it in canon, but I swear UBWA Sakura straight up hijacked me by the start of her POV.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we branching out. The "Adjustment" arc, for lack of a better term, has wrapped around nicely. Now we get some POV from different people - which tbh is my specialty. Artoria is still the main character as usual, but I'm excited to get around fresh voices, perspectives, and idiolects now. From this point on there'll be mild timeskips - we go back to the day-to-day scheme come HGW5. 
> 
> Also, shoutout to Rushietushie for just telling me to roll with it. Series is literally called Fate, and it's been easier to come up with ideas rather than break my back tryna justify them. I'm now just embracing some of the convoluted, plot-driven developments, and sincerely be enjoying every moment of it.
> 
> Sorry it's been a while. Honestly it hasn't been easy. The Philippines just had a massive flooding issue, which led to a dam floodgate having to be drained without an evacuation order and the obvious casualties along with it. Lots of people suffered needlessly, and it got to me for a bit. Wasn't in a good mood to write, and if I'm in the mood that makes subpar content I'll just wait it out instead. But yeah, that happened, and it sucks, and here I am again. Wasn't among the people hit by it, but I knew people who were. But I'm back doing this, and here we fucking go.

The café had a history to it - the owner had, at least. Known as Ahnenerbe - a loanword from times and people past - the store had been bough, resold, and shuffled with new purposes. From restaurant to bookstore to even a certain Magus killer's safehouse, the name managed to endure longer than any single one of its residents.

The current iteration of the legacy building brought the most changes to date. Stoic red bricks laid the walls, with wooden floors waxed far beyond spotlessness and vaguely towards the point one slipped and stumbled off all the unnecessary slickness. It was inviting and cozy and quiet any other day - just not for this one, as a certain captain of a certain archery team made abundantly clear not just to her friend, but seemingly the universe at large. 

"What do you mean you aren't showing up?" The tomboyish redhead yelled into the speaker of her phone, just a teensy bit incredulous. 

"Means I can't show up. Jeez, Ayako, were you always this loud? My ears are freaking ringing here." Her dear, dear friend she yearned to throttle - in a rare fit of frustration - complained back. "Look, thing came up. Non-negotiable things." 

"But now of all times? And for the next two weeks - at least!?" She continued on the warpath impulsively, before biting it down for consideration's sake. 

"Believe me, I'd have told you if I knew this'd be happening at all. Even if I didn't know you'd open up trying to shout my ear off!" 

True enough, Ayako Mitsuzuri conceded wordlessly. Two measured breaths and a smile followed the archery captain's return to composure. 

"I know, I know. Sorry, it hasn't been a very good day for me." 

"Shinji?" Rin hazarded the guess, and the redhead nodded before realizing it hadn't quite gotten across over a call. "So you've met him too." 

Her best friend laughed first, and Ayako followed soon. The tension that'd warped eased off, not forgotten but irrelevant to the moment. 

"I shouldn't have yelled at you-" 

"Damn right you shouldn't have, though I'll forgive you this time." How the girl could pout so audibly was beyond her comprehension. 

"-but damn it, Rin, couldn't you have waited a day or two? Not leaving us for the Friday rush of all things?" 

They'd been best friends for as long as she could remember, through thick and thin and altogether stupid. Joining some hole-in-the-wall maid café had been a combination of the latter and maybe a game of chicken taken a bit farther than either had anticipated, despite both of their (alleged) better judgements. Rin the cheapskate wanted some part-time work for her expenditures, and Ayako had needed (desperately so) time off accommodating the club's most pretentious, seaweed-brained jerkass. 

The pair had thrived as they usually did when they worked together. Now that she thought about it, this might have been the first time Tohsaka wouldn't be on-shift with her.

"It's a family thing. It's important to me." Rin said. There was a rare finality to it - not that she wasn't always serious with her decisions.. Just that she wasn't usually that somber about them - the playful indignance that usually remained in traces had evaporated.

"Oh." It left the tomboy's parted lips, unaccompanied by the rest of now her discarded thoughts. "I'm sorry to hear about that." 

"Don't be. I don't need pity." 

"You're right." 

A beat, thrumming with low static as the voice on the other end inhaled sharply. 

"You didn't mean it like that." Rin insisted - it was the closest her best friend ever got to apologizing. "I'm just on edge here too. Please don't take me seriously now." 

"Don't worry. I never take you seriously." 

"Thanks- wait, Hey!?!" 

Ayako stifled a giggle. Tried to. Failed miserably. Dull thumps on the other end - either Rin was at home, slamming a hand at her desk, or literally anywhere else and stomping her boots on the ground. Probably drawing goofy stares from people not expecting her to act that way.

"What do I tell the owner though?" 

She heard a shrug over the line. It should have been impossible to do that with that red sweater she always wore, but Rin Tohsaka rarely conformed to such petty limitations.

"Make something up. Like maybe a flu?"

"Can't you just say it's about that family thing? Or maybe come and tell them yourse-"

"Gotta go, bye!" 

And there went Rin Tohsaka, the call, and the last dredges of Ayako Mitsuzuri's patience all in one fell swoop. 

<\- ->

"Oh, Tohsaka won't be showing today?" Yukika Saegusa half-mumbled, clear disappointment in her eyes. One of Homurahara's track trio, and in Ayako's opinion by far the easiest to speak with. The shy thing had taken to fiddling with the ribbon around her outfit's waist. 

The little bistro... it wouldn't have been entirely wrong to call it the teenaged equivalent of a dive bar... had come into new life off with the two of them applying, and their fleet-footed colleague and classmate had been a welcome addition-slash-tagalong to the time spent working. It was the smile she wore - soft and disarming, managing to make even give her closest friend pause to her own occasionally-volatile moods. For a while at least. 

"Nope." Ayako said, shaking her head and popping the 'p'. "Had a stomach flu or something. No go for the next few days, maybe even a bit after the week." 

"Aww... I do hope she'll be okay soon enough." Yuki wished openly, hands clasped over her frilled, borrowed skirt. "Tohsaka works too hard sometimes." 

It was still a bit mind-blowing how naturally it came to the track runner.

Rin wore the exotic ladyship like second skin, spouting loan words and playful endearment - English, German, and stray bits of Finnish, she claimed - as naturally as she did anything, and just as successfully. The motto of "Always elegant" was most certainly a lie - she'd seen the red-sweater furling from indignance too often to buy that anymore - but her friend did put on a convincing show of it to most of the world. 

Ayako's own appeal laid in her maturity - as convincing as it currently was, yelling into a phone in an empty café before her shift even began. The older sister type, tall and adult and just a bit enticing to the bulk of their boon of clientele. Mostly juniors, with the oldest coming up around Sakura's age, though the stray classmate did wander in on occasion. It came naturally (to be confident and comforting. Not to be a big sister - Minori really didn't need nor want the coddling, and it suited her fine.).

Yuki's was simply herself, innocent and doting. No need to play a part, wear a persona. The sort of young girl that made people act all protective-like, even when she didn't really need it: track runners were very fit athletes, and anyone causing trouble wouldn't dare risk Ayako's ire. Certainly not whatever the hell Rin would get around to doing. 

Ayako looked back, tearing her eyes from the ground and rambled thoughts. "Yeah, she does. Maybe this is her break or something." She conceded, nodded along, a bit distracted by the issue the latter hadn't processed fully. Of course she wouldn't - Yuki had been a late addition to their ad-hoc team, free of the sweat and stress that came with unexpected service traffic managed with an understaffed team. She hadn't worked a day without both her seniors having her back, and Ayako wasn't entirely keen to see her do so - some days, it felt that it was sheer competitive spirit keeping her and Rin afloat amidst their own daunting workloads. 

Taking her own evening off was a though. Not a good one, by any means - it'd set a bad precedent to someone frankly to impressionable for their own good. 

Also it'd mean she'd give up. And while Ayako Mitsuzuri didn't know how to quit, she did know when it would be smart to cut her loses. 

It was something to think on, at least. Preferably over a walk. 

Yeah... some distance sounded about right for now. 

"Mind watching over the opening for a bit, Yuki? Haven't eaten anything since lunchbreak, and I spotted some tasty-looking Dorayaki by the corner stall." 

"Okay. But... really, you should take better care of yourself, Ayako." 

The chastisement came with some fidgeting from her junior. Not really used to telling people off - normally Maki's role, the older redhead imagined. 

"Alright, mom." She drawled the word out for emphasis, hearing her own sharp smirk in her own tone. "I'll be back in five."

"And... could you bring me back one too? I'll pay you back for it, of course." 

The senior sighed despite herself, bemused. "You could have led with that, Yuki. And it's fine - consider it my treat before the absolute hell that'll come later." 

"What?" 

But Ayako had already left. Ignorance was the only mercy she could grant to her junior. 

_Now... to pull a Rin._

<\- ->

Pulling a Rin, as the girl herself refused to call it, was all about marrying initiative and impulse and success into something that really, really shouldn't work but does through (what Ayako assumed to be) intimidation, sheer force of will, and reality-bending competitiveness against seemingly the world itself. 

It was the only explanation Ayako had for the girl managing to not only live alone as an orphan for years, which pretty much flew in the face of every child protection agency in Japan, but balancing that hectic migraine with her own exemplary school performance.

Also the only explanation for not being robbed, ever, despite being a preteen (now teenaged) girl who lived in a freaking mansion without any male relatives. Ayako been invited along a couple of times - the bedframe in Rin's room was probably worth more than the entirety of hers.

Even if they were terrible, it'd be better than nothing. An awkward third hand was better than none at all. Service wasn't exactly a test of anything but patience, but grabbing someone to do it was a bit of a challenge.

It needed a delicate touch is what she was getting at.

Not unlike angling a nail in the fence, before bringing down the hammer with more force than strictly necessary. 

Which led the archery captain to her current "mark" for her own impromptu problem solving, strutting around town like the wide-eyed tourist she absolutely had to be.

Pretty blond hair riding down petite shoulders. A simple white blouse contoured around her loosely, and the ensemble was finished by what had to be a denim skirt that went just below her knees. Green eyes - like fake jade, bright and shimmering - hopping across the few people in front of her, Ayako included. They didn't break eye contact, which was good for her socially-unacceptable, panic-induced plan to snare (what better-sounding word was there for it?) a third hand on shift. 

If she was lucky, they could even play it off as a rare experience rather than the rush job it was. Make it come off like an opportunity, rather than a favor for a cutesy-dressed stranger in every sense of the word. If anyone could bullshit on that level, it'd be Rin Tohsaka.

And if anyone could hope to match her, well, they'd have to be Ayako Mitsuzuri.

<\- ->

"Nani?" Artoria Pendragon, king of knights, belted out in befuddlement. 

_What. Hopefully._

Despite a fortnight of practice with Taiga in their language, her grasp on it could charitably be called lacking. The basics had come in a trickle of messy syllables, but they'd poured out soon enough. It had been a great relief to realize if she'd spoken with enough conviction, she could be understood, clumsy accent be damned. 

The ginger girl's head titled a tad sideways in befuddlement, before loosing a small nod. Acknowledgement, from what Artoria could gather. 

"Konnichiwa." _A greeting_. _Followed by a curt bow_. "Watashi wa Mitsuzuri Ayako-des." _My name is Mitsuzuri Ayako._

No, not in their name scheme. Fragments of tedious, well-intentioned lecturing came, reminding the former king of their ways. 

_Family name, Mitsuzuri. Given name, Ayako._

Artoria took a moment to compose her thoughts, running them thrice-over for certainty. "Konnichiwa. Watashi wa Yamada Hanako-des." 

Her fingers may or may not have twitched, eager to ruffle the pocketed booklet that legitimized her existence in their nation. It wouldn't have been the first time the king of knights had made an utter buffoon of herself by switching the order... but checking such now would divide her own attention, which would prove to be bad form. 

The redhead - another schoolgirl Sakura's age, perchance a tad older - regarded her as a knight did their untested whelp of a squire. The gaze was sharp and roving. It reminded the displaced king of her youth more than she'd cared to admit. She spoke some words hat melded off her tongue, vaguely familiar but certainly not Nihongo. 

_How to ask them to repeat themselves?_

Taiga had directed her improvised education towards the practical practical, foregoing grammar and other nuances in favor of, in her own words, "Whatever the heck makes what's left of your stay here easier." This was fortunately one of the handful Artoria had taken to heart.

"Sumimasen, kikoemasen." 

_I'm sorry, I didn't catch that._

Or was it "can you repeat yourself?" 

...

It was irrelevant is what it was. 

_Mitsuzuri - no, Ayako - wait..._

First names were sacred in their culture, were they not? Something shared between cherished companions and treasured kin.

So she would indeed be Mitsuzuri among strangers like herself... 

"Bonjour Mademoiselle." The words swept off the girl's tongue like silk. French - Lancelot's mother tongue - and just as dauntingly unfamiliar to the fallen knight. 

"Do I look remotely French to you?" The Once and Future King snapped at the assumption, before pulling back and coughing into her fist from the impropriety before swapping back to the tongue she'd sworn to learn before her departure.. "Gomenasai." _I'm sorry._

"English, then." Mitsuzuri swapped tongues as easily as she breathed. "I wasn't sure, sorry. You looked it- ignore me. European, probably?" 

It came so naturally, as if the maiden been imbued with a fresh voice for every vernacular possessed. Artoria Pendragon did not envy (such actions were beneath a king), but whatever vestige of the emotion that hadn't been hollowed by her reign of stoicism was certainly trying its damndest to resurface. 

"Hai." 

"Don't worry. I'm friends with people who go abroad all the time - I can speak English pretty fluently." 

_Of course you do._

Artoria pouted despite herself. 

She had practice, after all. Still quite an achievement, but honing the skill had been doable thanks to her companions. Presumably her schooling too - not simple tutorship for the well-to-do, but something established for most of their age. 

Every attempt the king of knights had at polishing her understanding with anyone but Taiga had proven fruitless - the moment it registered she was learning the trade, every single one of them had began using her own tongue to converse. It was far more convenient, but how in the hell could she even put anything of the mind-numbing instruction to use at that rate? 

"A-" Artoria stammered, frustration simmered down with control, not ease, and continued obstinately. "Arigato. Don na goyodeshou ka?" 

_Thank you. How can I help you?_

Hopefully. Close enough. Maybe? 

Light hazel beamed back curiously, and the girl's mouth quirked down a fraction. Something had certainly went awry. 

"Nihongo jyouzu." The redhead allegedly complimented, crushing the little confidence the king of knights had gathered in her expertise. 

Artoria Pendragon wisely chose to surrender the task (temporarily, of course!). "Hello, miss." 

"So..." Ayako clapped her hands together, smirking with her eyes shut in the same disconcerting way Merlin did before making merriment and mistakes in equal measure. 

The king of knights narrowed their gaze expectantly. 

"Have you ever been to a maid cafe, Hanako?" 

Maid cafe? The latter was unfamiliar, even in her own tongue... but maid? Some sort of tavern, then? 

Artoria spared a cursory glance - a proper one now - at Ayako, ensemble and all. Dark dress, fringed at the edges, exorbitant but striking in a rather splendid way. Stockings hanging all the way up her thighs, drawing attention to the curvature while preserving as much modesty as it could. A red bow by her neckline, hanging slightly askew and matching the fiery hues of her hair. 

All in all, the type of lass the neighborhood would swoon over. The outfit did wonders for her already strong features. 

But that wouldn't suffice. It didn't say nearly enough. Artoria increased her discrete scrutiny on the maid, as the latter continued nibbling her lip in awkward musing. 

Dainty hands at first glance, though little calluses formed by the little joints of her finger - by the opposite of the knuckles, and only her right hand...

Emiya did mentioned archery training in the past. Perhaps Ayako had been among their ranks? The markings were simply to specific to belong anywhere else, unless there was a new activity that'd either existed in these lands or emerged in her absence. 

Little spots of discolored skin dotted her wrist, peeking past a long, satin sleeve. Light burns - bruised flesh was doubtful, given the lack of pooled blood under the skin. 

Odd, given their country's seeming distaste for warm food. It had been a rather rude awakening in those first weeks downing damn-near chilled meals to break the fast. 

"We have a cafe open is all - Ahnenerbe half a block down..." Ayako began explaining, voice chiming out as the king lost themselves in thought.

A shame, really. Just because she was a clear foreigner didn't mean she was well-to-do, though it was a fair assumption. Artoria wasn't a tourist, and even if she'd been interested in such the means for proper patronage would infringe on her hosts far too much. Well... farther than she already had. 

"My apologies for wasting your time. I've no means to afford such services for the moment." Artoria clarified, no doubt in her mind that the moment would stretch across her entire stay. It had already been a difficult conversation refusing any more generosity from Taiga and Emiya, and they'd only relented once she'd accepted the bare minimum for transportation (the king of knights still suspected they'd given a bit more than strictly necessary, which was more upsetting than it truly should have been). 

"-and we're understaffed!" Ayako interrupted, voice losing the softness it previously bore. "And you seem to be a good fit for the girl that called in sick." 

Odd. 

Artoria shook her head irregardless. "I'm afraid I've no experience in that trade. It would be best to look elsewhe-"

"No, no, no. No experience needed." Ayako continued insisting, head bobbing in fervent nods. Her bow drooped and fell on the dusted stone, going ignored as her words quickened. "We all start somewhere. We'll pay you. And it'll be fun. Please? Please. Please!" 

No, it would not. It was a trade - with standards and guilds and expertise she sorely lacked for. Or perhaps not, across these lands. 

And a respectable business for a woman was difficult, to say the least. Artoria could still count the number she'd known in her life thriving with their own ambitions against the society she'd failed on a single hand, with digits to spare. And for one of her... intriguing circumstance, courtesy of Avalon, well, a bar wench might be suitable for the mewling cub very well looked to be. Decades of veterancy in courts and pitched battle and diplomacy shoved into the bodice of a tiny girl who'd barely began blooding.

Guinevere spoke of such fortunate days in the rare times they had to themselves, not as husband-and-wife but the best of friends corresponding over couriers. It had been a wonderful day in light, drizzling rain. The shade had been cool and the letter grew damp in her grasp, but all was well and she'd laughed like the youth she'd long abandoned in the name of duty, reading her future wife's escapades sneaking away and experiencing the worlds beyond their own - to realms far beyond their lofty status. How Guinevere had spoken of the drink that never seemed to end once the sun fell, and the warmth of the people carried on when the day could not.

Vivid memories, made before drawing duty and Caliburn from stone.

Such blessed, simple days. Borrowed dreams, even... until today, mayhaps...

"I suppose I can spare some time. I'm willing to learn, Ayako, but I'm afraid I've little to offer in proper service until that point." Artoria half-apologized in advance. There was a finesse to service as a wench, was there not? She couldn't merely grunt and slop their porridge before them as a man could easily do. 

Yet another reason she missed her concealing armor, godawful-blinding-helmet and all. 

"Thank you, really. You've got no idea how much you've helped already." The redhead swiped an arm across her forehead, dragging away beaded sweat in the hem of her sleeve. "Just want to clear this. Ever been to a maid cafe before?" 

Artoria shook her head, paying rapt attention to the answer to come. 

"Well, you don't necessarily need to provide the best service on your first try, or your second and even third for that matter, really, but..." 

<\- ->

_Cute Goth Loli Maid Waitress._

Mitsuzuri Ayako had been very specific about the term. 

Cute would be... acting the age she claimed to be, certainly. Carrying on with all the blustering frivolities of maidenhood - the meandering gossip and wit that enraptured. It would be a feat - one that Merlin would already be smothering laughter at - but she'd claimed plenty in her lifetime. After all, she'd carried herself as a man for decades. Acting to her true gender would come more naturally then. Certainly. Possibly. Hopefully. 

Goth drew little from her own experiences. A few errant memories of Merlin's tutorship surfaced faintly - they'd been the foundation of her kingdom. They'd broken away from the Roman Empire to do so. They'd been generous with the role of women in their land and laws. And that was all she could recall, damn it. Whatever "Loli" might have been drew an even greater blank to the fallen king, and no amount of questioning could draw out anything more than budding confusion. 

A maid waitress had to be a wench. Simply serve the locale and preserve the evening's enjoyment. Not too difficult, from Guinevere's account. 

If only the damn uniform didn't cling so tightly. All the clothing in these lands fitted snuggly, accentuating features the king had spent decades concealing. It hugged curves best seen flat, bodice pinching pale flesh and chaffing at careless motion. Nothing compared to armor bites, but discomfort was discomfort after weeks of soft, downy fabrics. 

Artoria continued tugging down at the tight skirting obstinately, the apparel refusing and spitefully continuing to somehow ride up her abdomen even further. 

"It gets easier." Ayako assured, noting the overdressed girl's difficulties while straightening her own ribbon. A complicated expression flickered and faded in the hazel of her eyes. "Well, you get used to it." 

"I feel rather exposed." 

Even amidst the walled tavern, windows shut, the ensemble was... well, had far less fabric then she'd made use of in her life, save the brief stay in their hospital to treat her wounds. Chills crept up a leg that felt bare, despite the black, woven stocking hitched high past her calves.

Her new... friend? guildmate? nodded dully, eyes shut in possible agreement. 

"Trust me, that feeling fades real quick when you're ankle deep in customers." 

Rather ominous, and a bit more daunting than strictly needed. Perhaps even a bit haunted - the young girl's gaze teemed with a slight, shell-shocked glassiness to them. Ayako seemingly shook the thought off, imparting final dribbles of wisdom to the amateur Artoria most certainly was. 

"Just let me take the first customer and watch me closely. Stick to English whenever possible, and if a customer wants to order something just offer them a menu and have them point at what they'd like. Yuki's just chowing down on a Dorayaki right now but she'll come around in like ten, fifteen minutes tops." 

Follow her lead and avoid making a fool of herself. Not a difficult choice to nod along with. Artoria did so solemnly, right when ringing chimes echoed amidst the once-empty walls of Ahnenerbe and her first evening at a tavern would begin proper. It would be a memorable one.

Guinevere would enjoy such a tale. After the inevitable fits of laughter passed, of course. 

<\- ->

The most difficult part was not the clientele, as she'd expected. The tasks, while unfamiliar, proved to be more than manageable despite her flagrant inexperience. 

No, it was the stares. Not the tentative, stolen glances her subjects snuck, barely even visible through the ceremonial helm she dawned among the populace. There was neither awe nor fear to them, which proved disconcertingly novel. The gazes simply bore, searing across her body without even needing to meet them, prying in ways that would have left even her time's spymasters incensed at the audacity. 

The menu clung tightly to her chest, hued in the same clean sheen as the passport given to her what felt like days ago. It plopped down unceremoniously against yet another of their patrons - familiar long-sleeved khaki, likely from the same school Emiya spent his days studiously. Artoria ignored the prying gaze, lazing a finger to direct their attention for their order amidst another series of tongue-tied rambles that went beyond her limited comprehension. 

Despite her own reservations, Ayako's insistence on her own silence helped with the ordeal. The king of knights carried on with the service mutely, back stiff and guarded but as dutifully as she always carried herself. Artoria's newest patron pointed at the third and fifth entry - omurice and canned coffee, long since committed to memory over the course of the evening. 

Ayako managed impressively, handling the lion's share of the labor and tables by her lonesome. The king of knights had been preoccupied with her role, though the scant glances she could spare indicating nothing but exemplary action from the redhead. The younger one - Yuki, she'd barely exchanged a greeting with - still bubbled with unending exuberance, hefting a decadent dish Artoria wouldn't even attempt to name. 

But a king never yielded, regardless if a crown still rested on their head. Neither would she, despite the fatigue and bold gazes and dozens of other inconveniences that would prove utterly irrelevant in the face of determined competitiveness - mostly to herself. 

Artoria Pendragon would see the evening through, even if she'd end it dragging herself across the threshold of dawn.

<\- ->

It went a bit beyond dawn, unfortunately. Waiting tables was nothing compared to hours on forced march through battered terrain and unforgiving elements.

Doing so in "heels" - stilts, she'd like to call them properly - was a different beast entirely. Simple leather or pointed crackows would have done fine, but the ensemble required the ridiculous footwear that made her back and shoulders ache more in a few hours than full kits of plate did in days. 

It went beyond the pale for ridiculous, and the king had rightly been concerned she would either drive a stiletto - as they called it, and it certainly reminded her of a blade - through the floorboards or snap it off trying. Thankfully the risk went unfounded for the evening. Artoria had returned to the outfit Taiga had granted, with comfortably modest clothing and borrowed sandals she'd never quite appreciated as much before. 

The three of them sat (huddled in Artoria's case, truth be told) along a round table. It was nowhere near the size of their own, and it was made of wood and not polished stone, but it briefly reminded her of memories past, pushing away the pain in her body more briefly than she'd have preferred. Mitsuzuri Ayako roused and made for their kitchen, the plod of her steps drifting into distance and eventual quiet.

The silence cut off as the bubbly one spared Artoria a serene smile she'd no right to possess after such a grueling evening.

"Hello, Hanako!" Yuki greeted impeccably - because of course she would. Everyone she'd met simply outshone her own dull-witted grasp of linguistics. "I'm Yuki. You probably don't remember me-" 

False. Names were precious. Treating them as anything but would be a disgrace to herself and her kingship. 

"I do." Artoria amended, gesturing the short bow she'd seen Sakura do at times. "You were an impressive sight this evening, inexhaustible within your role." 

"O-Oh. Thank you, Hanako." Yuki accepted, head low and eyes boring into the table sheepishly. 

"It's one matter to carry through a day, and it's another to end it with the same smile you began with. I can scarcely recall anyone else who'd done the same." 

The king herself had certainly not been among them. 

Yuki continued fiddling with her fingers, unaccustomed to praise likely being the cause. "You did pretty well yourself, you know? Not everyone could just walk in and own an entire room full of people. A-And you're new and all, so that's really neat." 

She'd done passably, at the least. The king hadn't been told to leave for the duration, so something must have gone well. But success would hardly be the word she'd use. 

"I managed is all. The gawkers were likely drawn by my obvious lack of veterancy." 

"Veterancy?" 

"My apologies. It would mean seniority or experience." 

"No, no." Yuki cleared, shaking her head. "It's fine. I like learning things from other people. You have nothing to say sorry for. And I think the customers liked you - they didn't just stare because they wanted to see you fail, Hanako." 

"I suppose you'd know better than I would in this case." Artoria conceded hesitantly, yet to be convinced entirely. "There aren't many individuals like me in this country. The appeal - if it were true - would be fringed merely on my exoticness, rather than any personal merit." 

Yuki took more than a few moments to mull the statement over. It had became familiar over time - it was always the same unbroken silence that trailed off once she'd overdone her mother tongue to people she spoke with. It was so much easier as king, when word was law and the culture cultivated in her mind over decades.

"I mean, that is a thing." Yuki rebutted, fingers drumming on the wood mindlessly. "But you just had a presence earlier... that's really hard to explain. Calling people to attention, the kind that just grabs you and doesn't let go. A few of the tables I managed actually looked at you more then they did me." 

"Really?" Artoria said skeptically. 

But why, though? Why would anyone pick her sullen weight over Yuki's absolute radiance. 

The girl nodded. "Really. Kind of like, if I had to guess, a... princess?" 

"Truly?" 

It was a compliment - it had been intended as such, clearly, though it still irked the once and future king. She'd never been a damsel in her entire life, nor did she have any intention to do so. Artoria stifled the inappropriate annoyance beyond her best approximation to a polite, flattered smile. 

"Like, you weren't really cold? Just stoic and not into any nonsense at all, and it's just really neat to have here. I mean, Rin could do foreigner pretty well, but it felt like a bit of an act - which it was, obviously, because she's a big softie at heart. You just have that... um, charisma... naturally." Yuki part spoke, part pantomimed, wild hands included. They fell onto the table along with her head. "Please don't tell Ayako or Rin I said that." 

"Tell me what?" 

Yuki jolted - no other word would suffice - to life, back slamming against the chair and straightening. "N-Nothing." 

"Sure, Yuki." Ayako laughed the blatant backtracking off, settling on to the table clutching a trio of little cups. She handed them out, along with little wooden spoons, before turning to Artoria. "She's not wrong, though. We get a lot of jokes - hopefully just jokes - that people would treat us like queens and stuff, but I gotta say you act it so damn well. Must be a European things... you are from Europe, right?" 

"Brittania." Artoria supplied, before continuing past the odd stares sent her way. "If I might ask, who is this 'Rin' I keep hearing about?" 

"Best friend of mine that worked here 'till about today." Ayako explained absently, popping open the package and burying the wooden utensil inside. "Ice cream. Dig in." 

She spared a glance at the treat. It chilled to the touch like fresh snow. Artoria squinted at the writing. 

_Häagen-Dazs. Strawberry._

Not even worth trying to pronounce. It seemed Gothic, though - perhaps this was what they'd meant earlier?

Gingerly, the king of knights sheared off a tiny seam of pink from the top. It smelled of milk and something that was most certainly not strawberries. It tasted- 

Delicious. 

A fruity sweetness, intermingled with heavy cream that made her teeth ache in pleasure. Falling at around the bastard child of a snowstorm, a berry orchard, and a terribly convenient accident involving cows. Another spoonful, savored melting on the tip of her tongue. And another. And another. 

And it was gone. Damn it. 

"Rin kind of bailed a bit abruptly. Girl has her reasons, but we get swamped even when we aren't short-staffed. Trying to push through rush hour with little Yuki and I would leave me with a migraine and her probably bawling her eyes out." 

"That's not true!" Said little one protested petulantly - also a bit doubtfully, in Artoria's humble opinion. 

Ayako smirked halfway. "Well, maybe not quite bawl away, but it'd have been tough. Thanks for filling in as a temp." 

"Temp?" 

"Temporary worker. Not like I could ask the guys out back to don a skirt and lend a hand now, could I?" Ayako said, before giggling into her half-emptied cup of what was very well ambrosia to the king. "I'd pay to see that, though I doubt our customers would." 

"If I had money to spare, I'd be very much inclined to agree." Artoria admitted, a rare playfulness dancing across her modest smile. 

"You're actually using her outfit right now, Hanako." Yuki stated, stopped, and began waving her hands frantically. "We had it cleaned already, of course! Start of the week after all. Honestly it was really lucky you happened to fit it so well. Ayako really knows how to pick them." 

"I got lucky is all." Said senior replied modestly, grinning the easy-going smile of one who'd gone through the worst and endured. Apt for the evening, truth be told. 

"I will say the outfit is a bit... constricting in some areas." The king of knights shared, met with sudden silence that often indicated some sort of faux-pass. She turned her gaze to the people before her - Yuki had turned away, cheeks flushed, while Ayako had taken to coughing into her fist, eventually giving way to unladylike laughter. 

"I'll tell Rin you said that when she comes back. Bet she'll love it." The redhead continued bantering, hushed into silence by a sudden elbow to her side from Yuki. "Alright, maybe I'm not _that_ cruel." 

"You two seem rather fond of her." 

"Of course. She's my best friend, and pretty well liked by everyone. Even ran track against the trio when they challenged her." 

"Ayako!" Yuki interrupted. "That was just Maki being Maki. We all had fun there as friends." 

"And you three still lost." 

"Not for long. We've been training real hard to beat her next time." 

"Like you did when I thrashed you three a few months back?" 

Yuki huffed and pouted. "But you always do that to clubs. And we did win the next race, didn't we?" 

"Fair enough." 

"Speaking of which, you've been in the Archery club for a while now. Usually you just join up for a month to beat someone.., did you finally hit a roadblock, Ayako-sempai?" 

It wasn't exactly vitriol, and Artoria could still see genuine respect in their interactions, but the dragged honorifics came across as close to a taunt as she could ever imagine Yuki could do. The king of knights listened with bated breath to what greatly reminded her of court dramas, only far more entertaining. 

And it was archery then. The little calluses on the joints of her fingers. The king had seen them among her own subjects. At least the talent enjoyed relative popularity in Japan, and the commonality came as an odd comfort. 

"Um, well... you could say that..." Ayako-sempai laughed off nervously, ineffectually. Confidence askew, bashfulness was an odd expression on the girl. Yuki - sweet, innocent girl Artoria knew for all of an evening - pounced on the hesitation.

"But you've made president there, right? It's been way more than a month, but you've stuck around for a while now. Someone you haven't beaten yet?" She continued slowly, lighting up in abject recognition. "Or someone caught your eye!?" 

"Nothing like that." Ayako refuted, jaw clenched on the wooden scoop and utterly atrocious at lying. "I just like archery is all." 

She'd taken to nibbling the thing. Artoria could have sworn the wood had began splintering between her teeth. 

"I mean, plenty of cute guys there, I guess. You get along with Issei rather well, but I always assumed that was just about coordinating club issues. Maybe Shinji... no, sorry for even suggesting that." 

"You'd better be. The nicest thing I can say about him is that he makes such a tempting pincushion." 

"But that just leaves one guy who might be the reason, so if I had to guess it must be-" 

"None of the above, how 'bout it?" Ayako interrupted, a bit frantically and honestly rather amusing. The redhead stood and stretched for a moment, stiffer than she'd been the entire evening charming patrons.. "How about I get us some more ice cream? For the road... or something? That works? Cool." 

The king would offer no protest to such wonderful offers. 

The senior waitress shot a sharp, warning glance at her junior - met with a giggle of all things - and left for their second helping of delight.

Yuki shot a knowing glance at Artoria, who responded in kind. "Poor Ayako. She and Rin really rub off on each other sometimes. Must make it hard to be honest about these things - but really I can't tell who started doing it first between them!" 

"I can imagine." Artoria smiled back, memories of her betrothed flooding back before the complicated slog of politics - to their aimless, joyous youth. 

Yuki's smile fell. Her hands fell of the table, likely resting on the girl's lap. "So... I take it you're not coming back tomorrow, Hanako?" 

"Was I truly that terrible for the evening?" 

"N-No! You were great and all, like a princess!" She attempted to compliment, with mixed results. "Just... well, most girls in this kind of work quit on their first day. And you carried yourself really well, but I can't - couldn't, sorry - exactly tell if you were happy earlier or just playing the part." 

"It simply caught me off guard. I'm not accustomed to such wanton gazes." 

"You... well, neither am I really. It's just the only job that fits my schedule on the track team, and it pays alright too. It's mostly for students here. We turn away adults and older people when it's the younger people on shift. A-And no one causes trouble, because they'd deal with Ayako and management. Or Rin if they got really, really pushy." 

"The more I hear about this 'Rin', the more I want to meet her." From reputation alone, the girl had the makings Guinevere had: silk hiding steel. 

"You'll love her! She's such a sweetheart, most of the time. Just don't get her on the morning shift or something." 

"What morning shift?" 

"Exactly!" 

_Understood?_

Nope. Not quite. 

"Back. Hope not too much went on when I was gone." Ayako half-joked, half-warned. Yuki smirked playfully and remained silent - the girl was certainly bold. 

"We simply discussed the evening." Artoria defended. "It appears I've done better than expected." 

"We did that earlier, Hanako. You're bad at covering for people." She chastised, before handing off the delicious cups. "It's not like you know them anyhow. Buuuuut just to be safe we're not mentioning names. Right?" 

Artoria tilted her head. Yuki grinned. Ayako seemed dissatisfied but hesitant to make it known. 

"That said, you've got ice cream now and a day's pay. Figure I can be honest about something - hiding it away just isn't my style." 

Fair enough. The king of knights nodded along, uncertain if her performance was decent or atrocious yet again. 

"So... we were desperate earlier. Like, way desperate. Too many tables to wait on - not just service, mind you. The playful energy and the little games we run with the food. The little staged magic. Remember the ketchup drawings?" 

How could she ever forget? Artoria stared back somberly, grateful at how manageable the mess became in retrospect.

"Exactly. Truth be told we needed a face filling in to distract people. We could scramble the orders well enough on our lonesome but people would start complaining if we ducked away into the kitchen for too long. It's why you had so little of those gimmicky orders to deal with." 

"Those were too little?" 

"Yep, Hanako. Doesn't get easier. You honestly did way better than I expected. Really helped take the edge off what should have been a rough day." 

"You'd have done well without me." 

"Damn it, just take the compliment." Ayako joked. "Anyway, if you're up for it again tomorrow, that'd be cool. Rin's pretty much gone for good while, and we'll be understaffed 'till then. No pressure though - most girls don't stick around past the first hour, so you managing to last six is a big freaking outlier already." 

"I see. The evening's granted a greater appreciation for what service really demands. The footwear is horrible, to begin with." 

"Yeah... ahah... if it were up to any girl here, we'd be lounging around in sneakers. No dice, though."

A shame, from most of what Artoria could understand. 

"We've got time to prep for the next days, so it shouldn't be this bad for us. If you don't want another redo of today that's pretty understandable. And for all I know you could be a freaking tourist visiting, so if you can't stick around I'd get it. But if you were up for another go at this it'd be great. Yuki and I could help you figure it out, no problem." 

"It's not for everyone, so don't worry. It's no good if it bothers you too much." Yuki added reassuringly. 

Artoria pondered. 

It had been strange, to say the least. Service had always been a strength, but towards a kingdom's betterment. Something as inane as waiting on tables coupled with the strange actions required in their "unique" circumstance would have been unthinkable. The ensemble was constricting, the leers were irritating, and the workload unceasing. 

But labor - genuine labor, not mere assistance they'd offered to placate her (Taiga was obvious about this. Emiya was a bit better, but not by very much) - felt good. Her muscles tingled and burned and ached in ways it hadn't in weeks. And the ice cream...

"I suppose I'd need more days to make a proper decision." she conceded, noting the relief that struck Yuki's face, and how it seemed magnified fivefold on Mitsuzuri Ayako's. "Would that be alright with both of you?" 

"I'll just have to clear it with management, but I can already tell they'd love to have you on board. 'Till Rin comes back, at least. All bets are off when Rin gets involved." 

"Understood." Artoria returned courteously, wracking her brain for the proper response. Taiga had drilled it into her mind with the precision of a sculptor. It shouldn't be this difficult to recall... damn it all... 

The King of Knights stood from her seat, bowed (was this formal? informal? Artoria compromised the depth of her nod between the two), and spoke from ingrained memory. "Watashi no koto o yoroshikuonegaishimasu."

_Please take care of me._

Ayako stood to return the bow wordlessly, cheeks pressed up in a same smirk she usually wore since the day began. 

Yuki lit up, eyes bright and beaming. " Ohhhh!! Nihongo Jyouzu!" 

Artoria buried a sigh beneath her smile. 

_No, clearly not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ahnenerbe" is the name of the café in Carnival Phantasm. 
> 
> Nihongo Jyouzu basically means "You're Japanese is good." which essentially means it isn't. Shoutout to Trash Talk for fueling my limited understanding of the culture.
> 
> So my headcanon for Ayako's club interaction dynamics come from the fic "Shirou Never Misses" by Mereo Flere. I'd 100% recommend this. It's on fanfic.net.
> 
> And yes, maid cafe. Sue me. To be fair, any maid that employs people that look like Saber's age of freaking fourteen would prolly be ayt with people around that. I won't get into the logistics and legality and frivolous elaboration because this is primarily for plot-relevant fun.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, having a lot of fun writing from fresh POVs. Guess it's just the Danganronpa in me that enjoys utilizing ensemble casts to the fullest extents even with an actual established protagonist in the story.
> 
> We've got two best girls here :) 
> 
> (Dealer's choice who I'm talking about)

Winds howled, the night swept along icily, and the ward of Fuyuki city sat atop some poor excuse of a railing, long legs dangling twelve storeys above a sheer drop onto unforgiving pavement. The last heir of the Tohsaka bloodline stared into her city, eyes sharpened by magecraft to make out the wandering bodies by the streets.

Few caught her eye. Fewer still grabbed her interest. 

Men, suited. One by the combini, munching on Onigiri. Another by the third floor of a building to her right, hidden behind a window made translucent by neglect, curtained silhouette barely visible, but eyes cupped above where their eyes would be - binoculars, likely. On this street alone... what exactly were they observing?

She ate in silence - a puffed bag of chips, barely half-filled after opening. Salty and savory and just what she needed to think.

They had to be yakuza - Fujimura clan, most likely. It was their uncontested territory (among the crime families, of course. Fuyuki was undoubtedly hers.), baring the occasional dispute that resolved itself quickly enough. Open movement led to people noticing, and inevitable escalation down the line. The one by the convenience store's chest speckled - left breast, so it couldn't be a suit button. A pin then - it was a open statement. Or a warning, even. To what?

What exactly had spooked their patriarch enough to risk police intervention? Why do it so openly? Why carry on for so long - two whole weeks, and possibly more if she'd paid attention then. A careless lapse - the last she'd make for the brewing war. 

It didn't bode well. Every single patrolling Fujimura footsoldier was a potential witness to be silenced. The Einzberns had no scruples about casualties - and criminal or not, even Yakuza were civilians for this war - while the Matous sought them out gleefully, if Waver's recollections were of any use. They needed to back off, or things would get catastrophic - a chain of needless victims, simplified into a gang war... possibly a power vacuum if the entire Magus community considered them a concern, torching the organization to cinders and departing before the ashes even cooled. Her city would smolder again, like it had years ago... 

But only if she failed. And she hadn't so far. And she mustn't.

So she wouldn't. 

Raiga Fujimura wouldn't be a hard man to find: tracking spells could do wonders with a name alone - and you could only carry so much prestige before anonymity buckled under its weight. It would take minutes to settle that question at the manor.

The challenge was what to do with the knowledge. Finagling her way into an audience with the man would be stupid: Yakuza were patriarchal like most of Japan, and even if they weren't she'd simply be some no-name, petulant child laying demands on the head of a ruling family. Forcing him into illness with a Gandr spell would be a short-term solution at best, and if he passed on from that (very possible, given his dotage) the succession crisis would lead to an even bigger nightmare for everyone involved.

And it was very, very possible this entire ordeal was a rival magus' manipulations. It couldn't be the other major families - their means were potent, but predictable, and oh-so-invested in their own warped prides. It had to be among the other four masters then, if a magus actually was involved.

Her impromptu meal went finished, and Rin pocketed the wrap, picked out the rare crumbs that had fallen in tresses of her black skirt, and stretched her stiff limbs. The cool night air pleasantly ribbed across her face as she thought on the yesterday evening. How the first casualty of the Holy Grail War had been her job... 

Rin grinned at the absurd reality. 

_Sorry, Ayako._

Her best friend would manage of course, somehow. Ayako was a rival for a reason - she'd rarely disappointed her best friend, and she'd certainly never disappoint herself. 

_Now... to prevent the possibility of a gang war._

Not quite the same scope of responsibility... but pretty close - just ask any working teen.

Kotomine Kirei would be useful here, as much as she hated the man. It would be in the church's best interest to keep the little peace they could, once everything bubbled over. She'd pay him a visit later tonight then... she had to, as much as the thought of meeting her alleged guardian again made her skin crawl. Maybe even get some satisfaction dragging him out of a good night's sleep to deal with a fraction of the problems on her mind... heh. 

If the streets quieted again after that meeting, problem solved.

If they didn't, well, she'd know it was another magus. And she'd deal with them accordingly. 

Her own preparations settled, Rin Tohsaka worked her way down to the streets of Fuyuki, dropping height from building-to-building in the dead of night.

It was a Saturday, thank God, and she'd sleep off the exhaustion by maybe two in the evening tomorrow.

But if she had to suffer, Kotomine Kirei damn well would too.

<\- ->

Emiya was a splendid speaker. 

She'd never truly gotten around to realizing until quite recently - the boy had previously shied away from such conversations with her, bowing out gracelessly with mumbled words and gesturing towards his elder sibling. Artoria used to believe he was as lost in her tongue as she was in his, and was both pleased and disappointed that it had merely been a matter of conviction. 

It seemed everyone could speak her tongue, while she blubbered along with her twisted tongue and atrociously awkward accent... the king's cheeks puffed petulantly at the thought briefly before deflating back into their light conversation: interests to pass the time.

"I've some experience in calligraphy." She explained to her friend, memory of her education idyllic. It had come naturally, with Guinevere's prompting in their youth, to experiment with their correspondences. A few upturned brushstrokes that looked rather pretty in the candlelight evolved into a beautiful art in itself. "Would you care to see?" 

Emiya nodded, handing her a writing implement. It was thick and bulky and certainly not crafted from a hawk's feather. Ink seemed to bleed and pool by the metal nub when she let it rest on the paper. "May I ask how to spell your name in English? I'm fairly sure I know how, but I'd never seen it written and prefer to be certain." 

"Oh. Shirou. S-h-i-r-o-u." He repeated and replied slowly. 

"My apologies. Is that an R?" She sketched the letter in neat block. "Or an L?"

Taiga had thankfully cleared the distinction, and it was a discovery more fascinating than frustrating. Native speakers learning English often had difficulty with the letter, given how differently it was spoken - falling somewhere between both. 

"An R." Emiya answered, stopped, and attempted it again with a deeper roll of his tongue. "Rrrrr." 

Artoria beamed at the comically endearing display. "I see. Would you give me a moment?" 

The implement was far easier than a quill, though Artoria did miss stroking the downy of the latter. Funny how she'd never thought much of it then. A few practice drafts by the sides of the page of discarded paper he'd handed her, then a final attempt with as much care she could muster. It came out beautifully, and the ink didn't even bleed. 

"Shirou." She said, the word more a proclamation of triumph than the name it was, handing her work to the boy. "It's been a good while since I did such a thing." 

Three decades, though it would have been a challenge indeed to explain those particular circumstances. 

"It's stunning." 

It was handwriting. Not art with hours of effort, starting with the very blend of the hues of coloring used, or prose, with soul and heart poured into words. It was simply the closest thing a burdened king had to an interest, and it had been years since she'd even utilized it. Nothing but a frivolity she'd shed to her youth.

Still, Artoria took the praise for what it was, undeserved as it felt. "I'm pleased you like it." 

Perhaps the boy had never seen it before - Emiya seemed inordinately invested in the draft, eyes gauging for details she most certainly thought nothing of. 

"Other than that, I've done little beyond responsibilities to my family." Probably the closest term she could use for what she'd left behind. It still felt unearned. "I know you've an interest in archery though. May I ask about that? I've never had much success in that means." 

Curse her diminutive frame. T'was a shame one couldn't be an archer without a bow - even with her waned strength Artoria Pendragon was more than certain she could throw a weapon with enough strength to kill a man thrice over. And she could load and man a ballistae by her lonesome, but proper archery had always eluded her. 

"It's actually kind of boring, really." Emiya shared, disappointingly. "So predictable when you hit the mark." 

Artoria blinked blankly. "It's not meant to. Shooting a target at a hundred paces accurately would be a feat indeed." 

"Yeah, been there I guess. Just match your breathing and focus - all there is to it when you boil it down... did I use that right?" 

She'd be the last person to know for both matters. "Quite a boast you're making there, Emiya." 

Recognition seeped in to the boy's features, and his head tilted back in embarrassment. "N-No... I'm not trying to brag about it. It's just is easy, I think. All I really had to do was think and focus, tune the world out to just you and your mark, and after that happened you just see your arrow exactly where it was supposed to be." 

Perhaps it was wrong of her, but the sheer flippancy created some umbrage within the king. She fought to keep the challenging lilt from her tone... unsuccessfully, some would say "So feats such as, say, splitting an arrow asunder with another arrow would be tame for one such as yourself." 

His eyes glazed over, haunted. "Don't ever do that. half decent arrows aren't cheap. Had to do so many shifts to pay them back." 

The audacity! If you wanted a bowman, you started with their grandfather! 

Archery was among her nation's many prides. It was a lifestyle!

"Do you suppose I could see you performing one day? I'd like to see even a fraction of the ability you claim to possess." Splitting an arrow in two... over a hundred paces... it would be a spectacle worth witnessing. The victor would have left with a considerable purse for the eve's success.

"Um... maybe?" Emiya relented, an awkward smile that seemed to slough of slowly in her gaze. In her challenging gaze... oh. 

"Gomenasai." _I'm sorry._

She'd forgotten herself. Let borrowed pride relentlessly discomfort her host. Her friend. 

Artoria bowed low. 

"It's... it's fine, really... um... archery just means a lot to you then?" The boy rubbed the back of his head nervously, flashing a flustered smile as if he'd been at fault. 

The king sat properly again, back straight. "It's a treasured craft in my country. We get rather invested in our nation's passions, but I make no excuses for my actions." She bowed again, shallower than the last - her eyes traced the matted floors for the duration of the gesture. 

"It's fine, really, H-Artoria..." It felt odd to be called that name - it genuinely felt like decades since it'd been used. "I should have been more aware of what I was talking about. At the very least I could have paid attention when you started getting upset. No harm done." 

"Truly?" She asked, tentatively, cursing the tone of her own voice - like the demure maiden she'd never been. 

"Harm would be what happened when, well, I broke equipment that day..." He shuddered at whatever memory came to mind. "Our captain really wasn't pleased about it..." 

_If he'd done the same in her army, well, Kay might have tanned his hide for that. Would have._

Artoria smirked at the childishness of it all, before promptly being upstaged by the most and least mature woman (she hesitated to call her lady, no matter how fond of her Artoria had surprisingly grown to be) she'd ever met in her interesting life. 

"I... come bearing gifts!" Taiga boomed, arms loaded with a hefty bag. Orange fruits peeked off the top, and the king heard Emiya groan at her side. 

"More persimmons? Fuji-nee?" 

"No such thing as too many." The teacher winked back, lying as easily as she breathed. "And not just persimmons, how dare you? This was kind of a pain to find in Japan. Specialty stores are pretty heavily curated here, and getting them in subtitles was just a nightmare with my schedule - can you imagine, Shirou? Your poor older sis could just about feint from exertion now." 

"Do you feel ill, Taiga?" 

"We're better off letting her drop, Artoria. She'll sleep off about anything if you let her." 

"How rude... Arti, help your big sis." The king bit her lip at that cursed nickname, wisely choosing to ignore the pleas. That abomination of a title needed to die now - Taiga was a mere casualty of circumstance. "Pffff, you two are conspiring against me. And after all I've done for the both of you... sniff, sniff." 

"You're not meant to say that out loud, Fuji-nee." 

"I Cry Differently, Alright!?!" 

Their dynamic was... uncomplicated, but indescribable for the inexperienced such as herself. Artoria nodded along politely, vaguely following the conversation and that Fujinee was making her way to the television - which they'd compared to pictures when she'd asked what it was, and she nodded along because there was only so much one could convincingly admit to without coming across a dullard - and popped a smaller box into it. 

"It's a surprise movie..." Taiga winked at them both. "But it's something a bit closer to home for Artoria there, and it's got Japanese subtitles so Shirou can keep up even on the complicated dialogue bits."

Whatever in blazes "subtitles" were, it wasn't worth asking quite yet. 

"Scoot, scoot." Taiga plopped down between the two of them, settling herself snuggly in the middle, an arm around each of their shoulders. Shirou tried and failed to pull away, while Artoria simply resigned herself to the woman's death grip - it wasn't actually unpleasant, truth be told. Words flashed on screen, shuddering as if someone was propping them in place. 

**[Python (Monty) Pictures LTD]**

Like the snake? 

The words flashed off screen before she could read the rest, replaced by another. 

* * *

**Monty Python**

**and**

**The Holy Grail**

* * *

<\- ->

Interest was politely feigned until it needn't be. The clopping of hooves in dirt registered among her own experiences, followed briefly by a knight - with the brilliant, dandelion sun their coat of arms - and squire hopping along... but where was the horse? Artoria squinted at the scene: the attendant was bashing what must have been stone together in his grasp to feign the sound. How quaint. 

"Halt!" One of the men yelled - likely a guard, or perhaps a castellan making the rounds at an opportune time. "Who goes there?"

Taiga giggled, arm tremoring against her own side. Emiya leaned opposite her for distance, failing to part from the older woman's affectionate grasp. 

"It is I, Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon from the castle of Camelot, King of the Britons, defeater of the Saxons, sovereign of all England!"

Artoria stiffened. Her new instructor noticed, damn it all. A cheeky grin spread across Taiga's face. "Brings back memories, don't it?" 

"W-What?" The words came with an uncharacteristic falter from her suddenly parched throat. The king couched the itch away before it caught again. 

"Well, you're named after this guy, that's for sure." She raised a thumb to point at the man in question - craggily beard and all. The teacher straightened a tad and loosened her grip - Emiya shuffled away from the corner of her vision, and the older woman buried a pout. "Your family was a fan of the Arthurian myths, weren't they?" 

"No more than anyone else?" 

"Nooooo..." Taiga insisted inconveniently, pulling her close by the hip. The king reached an arm out to her other host pleadingly, who turned away in regret. Emiya made for the kitchen, but more importantly, away from the woman the king had realized was certainly inebriated - her breath reeked of cheap stout. "They named their kid after 'em, so can't be just that, but this... film, yeah... might have been before your time, now that I think about it..." 

Her language tutor hiccupped, interrupting the thought. Emiya was still nowhere to be seen, the coward. 

"Just... you get this, right?" She gestured to the television and the chatter within the scene.

"-it's a simple question of weight ratios! A five ounce bird could not carry a one pound coconut." A man protested, from the tone alone. 

Artoria nodded along, untruthful but unfailingly polite. 

"Perfect!" She yelled, perhaps a bit louder than would have been best. "Shirou, bring us some tea cakes when you get back - the good ones. And you _will_ get back soon, so help me!" 

<\- ->

"How do you do?" The loud, perhaps questionable, peasant woman greeted. 

"How do you do, good lady? I am Arthur, King of the Britons. Who's castle is that?" 

"King of the who?'

The man who would be Arthur seemed at a loss. "The Britons."

"Who are the Britons?" 

"Well, we all are. We are all Britons, and I am your king." He replied, voice laden with disbelief at the ignorance. 

"I didn't know we had a king." Artoria smirked - it was about right to her own experiences: the first decade establishing a foothold had been hellish indeed...

"Please! Please, good people. I am in haste. Who lives in that castle?" The man who'd acted as Arthur vehemently called attention - dragging her away from listless distraction. 

"No one lives there."

"Then who is your lord?"

"We don't have a lord."

"What?" 

"I told you. We're an-"

Something, something. Words were shared, allegedly in her own tongue.

Artoria couldn't fathom most of them, beyond the frantic calls of silence from the one claiming to be Arthur. 

A warm bowl was pushed into her hands. The Once and Future King glanced back, met with Emiya's apologetic smile. The pungent odor wafted like a brewery gone wrong, but she'd known from personal sampling the broth was more than savory. She returned the warmness with welcoming nod and indulged. 

Taiga downed her within moments, sputtering from the effort. Traces of it dribbled down her throat - that is, outside of it, staining the front of her green dress in flecks. She rose to likely change her soup-soiled garments.

"Shut up, will you? Shut up!" The scene tore her back yet again, to a rather sordid display that set what had once been a smirk into a thin line.

Arthur had began manhandling the peasant. Her fingers curled and tightened on her lap. 

"Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system." The peasant proclaimed, still struggling in the alleged king's grasp. 

"Shut up!" 

"Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system!" They'd taken to wriggling and hopping to escape, to little success. "Help! Help! I'm being repressed!"

"Bloody peasant!" 

"Oh, what a give-away. Did you hear that? Did you hear that, eh? That's what I'm on about. Did you see him repressing me? You saw it, didn't you?" 

Emiya chuckled across a seat, enjoying the theatrics. 

The Once and Future King could not claim the same. 

Artoria Pendragon pursed her lips and withheld judgement. 

<\- ->

Stabbed through the visor... how impressive, if the feat were real. Perhaps Gawain could perform the task. Or Merlin, if coin or women were on the line, but only then.

Her own blades were far too robust to do the same, and prying her treasured weapons out of an opponent in a melee would have been needless moments of vulnerability.

The knight in black, as if to prove her observation, struggled to free his blade. It was a few seconds struggle, sabaton stepped upon the fallen knight's domed helmet. 

King Arthur glanced back at their squire before galloping their way towards the warrior at attention, who'd planted their weapon in the ground, gloved fists resting weight on the pommel. 

"You fight with the strength of many men, Sir knight."

The knight in black continued their vigil, still as stone. 

"I am Arthur, King of the Britons." 

The exchange had become a blur after this. The mock combat was well put together, she could grant. Taiga rejoined in a new white gown - she'd noticed the older woman, sobered, by her side around the mark where the black knight lost three of their limbs. "This is my favorite part. Just watch." 

"What're you gonna do? Bleed on me?" 

"I'm invincible!" The near-limbless knight declared, hopping on a single foot to knock against Arthur's chest. Not a single drop of blood had been spilled, and the morbid display was altogether comical now that she considered it such. 

"You're a loony." 

"The black knight always triumphs!" 

Taiga had lost herself in a fit of laughter. Even Emiya managed a grin at the absurdity. 

So did she, traitorous bemusement creeping up the corners of her mouth. 

<\- ->

It faded just as quickly at a terrible, terrible reenactment. It wasn't a wedding. It wasn't in jest. It wasn't a laughing matter. 

it was Lancelot's slaughter in her court - the one that claimed Gawain's brothers. She'd sent them to guard... her wife's execution. A horrible one, burned at the stake, and memories forced their way in, wanton and unwanted and cloying with guilt. She'd made the command to do so, heart hollow with the knowledge her dear childhood friend's burnt remains on her conscience, praying to whatever gods who'd listen to let her wife feint before the flames lapped at her ankles. 

The kingdom demanded blood, and sadly this was the first time her own wouldn't suffice. And more blood was shed, to little avail for all the things they'd fought for. 

The nightmares would rear back, she was certain. There was little to occupy herself with beyond thoughts, once content, certainly to turn haunting yet again. Hopefully it would pass, else it would end the display on a bitter note she'd prefer to avoid.

<\- ->

"Ni." 

"Ni?" 

"You'll see." Taiga promised.

And she did. 

<\- ->

"Greeeetings, King Arthoorrr..." Tim greeted. Tim - the unholy fusion of Merlin's body in Gawain's accent, save for the thick goatee, ram-horned head, and ungodly eyebrows left the usually stoic king cackling, drawing concerning glances from her two companions. She settled for laughter barely smothered into the palm of her hands. 

Her eccentric mentor would throw a fit at his portrayal - and it had to be Merlin they were portraying. There was no other mage in her court to absolutely slander, and she loved every moment of it. 

Tim had turned, brandishing his cane as flame erupting from the end of it, eliciting even more unkinglike giggles from Artoria. If only he could see his legacy...

She could, and perhaps that was why the world saw fit to let her live on. It reminded her of the day Caliburn called to her in the stone, where everything felt so right and purposeful and there was a purpose awaiting her. 

<\- ->

"You know, the people who made this actually were Arthurian scholars." 

"Truly?" 

"Yeah, even though they're comedians. A lot of details - even the weird ones - they got right. Every single one of the knights mentioned were part of Arthur's court or at the least mentioned in the original myths. The Black knight, the Green knight, even Not-so-brave-Sir-Robin." 

"I don't recall a rabbit in Arthurian myths, let alone a dangerous one." Everything else had been a facet of her life, so much that Artoria had began doubting her own recollection of her life rather than the theatrics themselves. "And no such 'Holy Hand Grenade' to my knowledge." 

Taiga shrugged. "They might have taken a few liberties, here and there." 

<\- ->

"Is that it? That... that was the final battle!?" 

Emiya seemed to have lost his mind alongside his older sister - the pair were laughing raucously at some unknown humor. Perhaps it was a cultural difference.

"Yes, it was." 

"Did they run out of funds?" 

"Nope. They had some big-name music sponsor for it too - it had to be deliberate." 

"But-But why?!" 

"Because it's funny." 

<\- ->

It was an oddity of a performance. Parts of it made her giddy as she'd been as a child and parts rendered her as close to weeping as she physically could. it was a complicated feeling she couldn't pin down, other than it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Like a play for her benefit, without the looming threat performance troupes had for deriding their king too openly... it was irreverent and enjoyable and she wasn't certain what she'd do if she met the ones the scripted the work. 

"It's been too long since we saw this one, right, Shirou?" Taiga clapped a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. It seemed to damn near crumple at her touch. 

"What, Fuji-nee?" Artoria glanced past the confused boy before regarding Taiga again, who'd taken to tracing a finger on her chin in thought. 

"Oh, right, you wouldn't remember, would you? You were a munchkin then." She began, swaying slightly. "Well, back when Kerry was with us-" 

Emiya grimaced at the affectionate pet name, which went ignored by the older woman.

"-he insisted on English for the household. No clue why until now, because he was fluent in Japanese too, but it stuck with me in the weirdest way. So I checked out where English came from to appreciate the language a bit more - hence, why I absolutely adore Charlemagne's paladins - but there was this comedy group that did these awesome skits. And lo and behold, Monty Python!" 

As if that was enough of an explanation. 

She grinned sheepishly. "Kerry... wasn't a fan. Especially wasn't a fan. Understatement, really. Blew a gasket after he came back from his trip abroad to us watching this." She pointed at the television, currently spewing out names of the ones involved with the project. "Didn't want Shirou anywhere near it. No clue why. He didn't seem to mind their other projects... not like I still have copies of them. None with subtitles at least, so he wouldn't be getting the full kick outta them." 

"I... see?" 

"But y'know, you were the perfect excuse, so thanks!" 

"Glad to be of service. I suppose." Artoria said uncertainly.

Emiya rolled his eyes.

There was now a kinship between the two of them, for Taiga Fujimura was a shared experience in and of herself. 

But the amber pupils rolled back further, and the boy seemed to fall asleep on the soft tatami. The woman had yet to notice her sibling's impromptu rest.

"But... one segment hasn't quite left me... would you allow me to ask of it, Taiga?" 

"Sure, Artoria. I can talk about this for hours." 

"Just one inquiry is more than enough." If the conversation went to Lancelot's slaughter, well, her composure may not survive. "About the peasant and King Arthur, where the former began yelling about their repression while the king began grabbing them... is that how King Arthur is viewed by most? A despot against the people?" 

it wouldn't have been uncalled for an assumption to make, given her actions. Still, the merit in the possibility weighed her heart down like lead. 

"Well, sweetie, it's kinda complicated. I'm not a westerner, so I wouldn't understand a lot of that culture no matter how much I try - and believe me, I have tried." 

Artoria sat up a bit, processing the possible condemnation decisively. 

"But... if you asked me, I don't think they were. I mean, it was made by Arthurian scholars - these people spent time and passion learning the myths, and people don't really do that for things they hate, right? Take away the knights and the princes and the ridiculous set pieces, and it's just a funny human retelling of a culture worth remembering." 

"The... film... didn't really touch upon it with the ending, but King Arthur did fail. The kingdom did fall, and the story did end - though not like... whatever _that_ was." 

"Stories don't end until they stop being told, dear." The words flowed with uncharacteristic softness. Her eyes shimmered like the calming matron she rarely acted - a stark reminder she was the same woman who'd been nothing but a comfort to the king. "Take Kiritsugu's, for instance. He was a sweet man who doted on his son and the cute-albeit-odd girl that hung around his house. Even if he's gone and buried, his story hasn't ended yet. Shirou still wants to be the man that lives up to his father's ideals, and I want to help him see it through. Arthur's round table and Charlemagne's paladins are no different, even if their stories get played with a bit - we're carrying a piece of their history forward with us. We remember them as they lived and loved, not how they died or how they failed - not always, at least - and there's just something beautiful about that, even to someone as dense as me." 

Taiga paused, not quite in thought, and loosed an unladylike belch. 

"I... may have had a bit too much to drink earlier. Ignore the _young_ lady waxing poetic here." 

"I think that's a beautiful way to see it, Taiga." As much as she yearned to believe it, Artoria couldn't... not entirely, at least. 

But it wasn't too late to start trying. 

"Really? Well, I take that back then - I'm great at this!" She belted out with a cattish grin, ear-to-ear, before ruffling the sleeping boy's hair, rest of him face-down on the floor. "He's all tuckered out too. Probably from laughing too hard." 

"I can carry him to his quarters." Artoria offered. 

"Nah, are you kidding me? Been years since I got to do this." She draped the sleeping Emiya's arms over her own back, hefting him with ease. "Takes me back to when I'd pick him up and spin him around - he was a really small kid then, not this gangly scarecrow you're seeing today." 

_Not that you couldn't do it now. Though I'd strongly advise against it._

"Would you mind bringing the bowls and plates to the kitchen for me? Hands are a bit tied for the next few minutes." 

"Gladly, Taiga." 

<\- ->

Hunched on the mat, seated and cloak pulled tightly around her body, Medea of Colchis awaited the man who'd saved her existence. He always came like clockwork with meals she never needed. 

It hadn't been necessary, sparing the green-suited man - Soichirou Kuzuki, he'd introduced with that same unerring monotone. She'd been more than ready to take what she needed then, so why hadn't she? 

_Because that way lay sociopathy..._

And the alternative had been pleading for a stranger's kindness, not even on her hands and knees but with her back flat on the ground, half-choked by drizzles of filthy rain. The shame had been an easier to accept then more blood drenching long-stained hands, for some inane reason lost even to her. 

An interesting introduction from the grail - curious given it only gave information deemed relevant to the war. Was that its own twisted way of cultivating some semblance of morality in their champions? It was raising the doubts, so perhaps there was method to the madness.

She'd killed her own spawn - prolicide, the grail supplied invasively yet again. She'd betrayed and been betrayed in equal measure, to the point the legend became her strength, and that very strength came to myth. Rule Breaker rested in a cornerstone of her mind, ready for conjuration. It beckoned with tantalizing purpose. To taint and warp and twist the world in its wielder's favor. 

The man who'd saved her entered the room, feet bare in the cold bamboo matting. It was a custom of the land she'd been loosed upon, though he'd refused to insist she follow the same customs. Perhaps that was what stayed her hand, all these hours. The man knew better than most from that alone. 

"I've brought dinner." He declared, digits pinched across a tray - plastic - with a set of individual plating. Some pickled vegetables, miso soup, and vegetable tempura - lotus root, judging by the portion's shape. 

_Shojin Ryori - Food of devotion._

The grail murmured its thoughts, supplying answers to the blanks plaguing centuries of time and worlds of distance. It was a Buddhist temple, and they forbid taking life to nourish themselves. There was an elegance to that, Medea supposed. Irrelevant but fascinating all the same. The world had certainly moved in her absence. 

He set the tray before her, atop the little wooden table that came up to her lap when she sat down. He sat across from her, eyes boring into her with curiosity, sharpness, and naive ignorance all at once. She huddled a bit more into her cloak to warn him off, and the man broke his unflinching gaze, shifting awkwardly. How predictable. 

"Who hurt you?" He repeated, the same line of inquiries he'd attempted with the past meetings. "Are you in danger?" 

A dark chuckle bubbled in Medea's throat. She swallowed it down with a morsel of soy - tofu, the grail corrected.

It wasn't the same as home, by any means, but it wasn't unpleasant to her taste. The exotic flavor was soft and satisfying. 

Her savior grunted in what she'd imagined was awkwardness. 

The others in the temple had seemingly accepted her with open arms - monks were allegedly charitable to the downtrodden, and her pride made no protest on the truth of the matter. She was among those brought low, and the only shame to be had was remaining there. 

The one boy, however, was a risk. He regarded her with suspicion, eyes set. It wasn't difficult to recall, despite the throes of delirium she'd been at as her savior carried her across the threshold of the temple. Blue hair, framed glasses - the youngest among their ranks. She'd cross that bridge once her strength gathered. 

Practically, the meal did nothing. The prana behind it was nonexistent, taken from near-lifeless things and rendered even moreso. It was sustenance in the same way offerings to the dead were, with the only difference being she could taste it. And that was enough to tempt her. The first morsel she'd had in months mere hours ago might have come from Demeter's coffers herself. 

"You are safe." Soichirou Kuzuki promised, choosing an odd angle of approach. She looked up from his hospitality, meeting his steel gaze. "You have my assurance." 

It was the closest approximation she could get. The grail beget knowledge - she must have been speaking their tongue. She must have plead with him in their tongue...

Medea shook the thought off, considering the logistics of her situation. It had been a small miracle she'd been brought here, of all places. Ryuudou temple was an absolute trove of energy - buried within the mountains like a landfill. A keystone to the very leylines of the city. 

"You are a strange man." She finally stated, breaking the silence she'd cultivated since her lapse of composure. 

Soichirou grunted in agreement. At least he was aware. "I am. But you are a strange woman as well." 

Caster flashed him a dark grin. "Oh?" 

He nodded, shunting his eyes shut for some thought. "You were bleeding earlier. Trickling from your mouth, stabbed in the abdomen, pooling across your dress like ink." 

"It's been a difficult night." She purred back, discretely coiling her thoughts on how to best proceed. 

"Brought you here earlier in the morning, when rains were heaviest. Placed you down on the mat carefully. Blood and waterlogged clothing staining the tatami mat. Returned with bindings, only to see the wounds gone. Returned with breakfast, and so were the stains. You are strange indeed." 

"Perceptive, I'll give you that much." 

"Thank you." 

"May I ask, are you a goddess of sorts?" He said, face dead serious. Medea laughed. 

She hadn't ever seen her grandfather - Helios, the bastard - but she was his progeny, as the legends went. "Somewhat, but not exactly." 

"I find it more interesting why a goddess would be bleeding out in the rain, choking on puddle water." 

Medea tensed, body beckoning for reprisal at the slight. 

He meant no offense - she could make it out in his eyes, still ignorant of how close he'd been to dying for the second time in the day. "As I said, it has been a difficult night." 

Soichirou nodded along, as if that explained everything, and spoke no further for the meal. Good - she had thoughts to settle. 

Logically, she should have been gone. She'd felt Gaea splitting her very being into stardust what felt like mere moments ago, and it had been agony. The grail was a fickle thing, but she shouldn't have existed with her former master murdered by her own hand. Some servants could - and she loathed and envied them in equal measure for the luxury - but she wasn't among the lucky few capable of such independence. 

Perhaps an oath to Gaea... no, something far less formal. Magic was lost to this world beyond the petty imitations of magecraft. All a servant needed was an anchor of sorts, rooting them to reality. Prana was preferred, but not among the terms of the trade. Perhaps Soichirou Kuzuki had, despite all odds, become that very point? He was invested in her survival, for the most unknowable of reasons, and ignorance was among a mage's repertoire as much as knowledge was. Perhaps more, among the creative. 

Doubtful. It was mere conjecture to explain a miracle. An interesting one, nonetheless - another reason she'd spared him so far. That could change if deemed needed. 

"What would a strange man want with a strange woman in the dead of night?" She inquired, spinning the little tools - chopsticks - lazily. 

"Break of dawn, actually. And I wanted nothing." He answered curtly. 

"Are you certain of that?" Medea continued prodding, intrigued. "Most men who see a helpless woman on the ground would have other motivations in mind. To have their way with them, for example? Hm?" 

He shook his head yet again. "I doubt you were helpless." 

Caster grinned lopsidedly. "I was not."

"And the thought never crossed my mind." Honesty. How refreshing. "You were also dying." 

"Depravity knows no limits for the lustful. Some would settle for dwindling warmth on a corpse. Others don't have such limitations." 

She'd have expected the man balk. Perhaps blanche at the thought. Maybe stammer surprise at the disgusting thoughts. Soichirou Kuzuki merely shook his head. "Such matters don't interest me. I doubt they ever will." 

"So your reasons weren't banal in nature." Caster conceded, with a bit more respect for him than she'd started with. "But what exactly was it that interested you? Kindness? Power over someone's life? My eternal gratitude?" 

"I don't know." 

_..._

"I don't follow." Medea of Colchis replied, flabbergasted. 

"I don't expect you too." Soichirou admitted. "I don't understand it myself." 

"So you saved my life on a whim?" 

"No... it was something more important than that. I think. I've had whims before, on rare occasions. This wasn't among them. I'd like to know what it is as well." 

Obviously, the one decent thing to come in her new life was a fluke. Why had she ever considered otherwise? 

"I suppose I'm not entirely surprised, but perhaps a tad disappointed." 

"I don't think you'd prefer I lie to you." 

"You aren't mistaken." She conceded, pointing at the emptied tray. "My compliments to the chef." 

"I'll tell Issei he managed to impress you." Were his parting words, almost jovially - the closest that monotone ever came to it, she surmised. The door opened as it always had, but failed to close. Caster looked back - Soichirou stood by the frame of the paper-thin walls, stiff and anxious. 

"Is something amiss?" She asked innocuously, tracing her own bounded field across the threshold - an amateurish thing that wouldn't last a few moments. A pulse of inquisitive thought more than anything, but she'd lacked time to do the proper procedure for the affair. How careless. How stupid. She ought to be better than that. 

Soichirou lied - he was right, she wasn't fond of it. "Nothing to concern yourself with. Just something off in the night air." 

Her scouting returned with insight, and her eyes widened in recognition. An upstart magus, somewhere along the mountain, to their east. Three thrumming command seals, burgeoning with power and potential. 

And nothing else. 

_Assassin._

"If you leave this room with that lie, I cannot guarantee your safety." Medea of Colchis warned, cursing her own laziness. The one advantage she had over a class, and she'd thrown it away for a few hours comfort...

"Will you kill me?" He asked, voice unsurprised and strangely unafraid. "You probably could." 

"I just might, if you try and lie to me again." She retorted, half-playfully. "But the danger isn't from me, and the threat extends to the others within your temple. There are a few others of... I suppose you could say my kind. It's a bit of an early start to it all, though. Someone certainly got excited to begin." 

"Who?" 

"Assassin." 

"Is that his name?" He asked, voice achingly deadpan. 

"It may as well be. I've no clue how they found me so quickly... though perhaps it was the leylines running here that drew their attention." 

"Leylines?" 

She waved the question off. "Nothing to concern yourself with. For the moment, at least. The priority is surviving their ambush." 

"But they'll simply set another. If you've located them, now would be an opportune time to act upon them." 

Shojin Ryori - it went beyond consuming the dead. It forbad killing, did it not?

It appeared her savior had no such qualms on those matters. Not that it was unique among magi - or people for that matter - but he wasn't an imbecile like they were. That was enough improvement to work with, in her opinion. 

"It will be a minimum of two threats - a servant and a master." 

"I see." 

No, he didn't. Not yet, at least, but this was fine. Better than pointless questions - the kind who's difference would only mean dying ignorant or dying informed.

"One of them needs to be dealt with. Preferably both. I doubt either would submit to anything short of death or crippling them to the point of helplessness." 

"I see." 

The lack of concern, natural instincts that surprised even her own awareness, and disregard to the values the temple lived by painted a curious picture of her savior.

Perhaps she'd indulge her curiosity and spare him for longer than a day. 

"You are a strange man, Soichirou Kuzuki." 

He shrugged his stiff, suited shoulders.

"I'm well aware."

<\- ->

The foolhardy magus had fallen victim to a simple snare she'd conjured - amateur, utterly. Baited by nothing but laced whispers - a drunken daydream in the dead of night.

White-hot rays of light scorched the poor idiot across their body, charring skin and flesh and fabric. They'd made the mistake of attempting to protect themselves in the split-second of lucidity left. What would have been a quick, if brutal death, turned into an ordeal of finding the poor thing and putting them out of his misery before his wails woke the temple residents. 

It was a grisly sight, skin sunken and eyeballs liquidated in their now-hollow sockets. The creature - nothing else could be learned, except that it was once human and kept moaning pitifully - reeked of burnt hair and clothing. It curled into a shuddering ball, desiccated and longing for death. 

Caster felt the remnants of her meal climbing back up her throat. She forced it down with a difficult gulp.

Soichirou Kuzuki remained utterly unfazed, walking towards the dying thing, hunching low to grasp it by the exposed muscles of their shoulders.

It screamed at his touch. It fell into whimpers as the crook of his arm forced itself under what was left of its chin, still bubbling. 

It stopped after he'd broken its neck at an obscene angle, He snapped it the other way for good measure. 

Before sprinting towards her. 

The Assassin emerged, shrouded among dozens of identical woodland. She hadn't noticed then, but her savior - yet again, somehow - had. 

It was a blur of primal motion, hand outstretched inches from her head. A blade materialized where it positioned, edge gouging into his palm. Blood dripped where the dirk had buried itself, dark and blending into the night.

Her own eyes widened, panicked and flitting across the forest.

Another sprouted in his leg - the man fell to one knee briefly, forcing himself to stand and grunting from the exertion. He shifted position even as another dug into his chest, nearly hilt deep. Soichirou gurgled and spat the blood from his maw. He turned a hand very carefully to point at some nonsense expanse of branches. 

"T-There." 

Medea blanketed the area. Time warped at her intrusion, submitting to her will. Rustling leaves silenced, and falling debris fixed in place. Medea could barely make out a blade in the air, poised to move to where she stood, if time soldiered on inconveniently. 

"I can see him there. Trapped." He assured, heaving. He took limp steps towards their mark, and she followed uncertainly. 

"I need a moment-" Her twice-savior heaved, leaning against the discolored bark of a tree. "-to catch my breath." 

So be it. He'd already exceeded her expectations. She nodded considerately, and the Soichirou leaned onto the trunk, hand curled over his thrumming chest. 

"Assassin." She greeted haughtily. Her first trophy in the war rested on a thin branch a songbird would shatter. Skin pitch black and mottled, half-skull mask, and a malformed right hand - stretched like rows of fleshy ribbons. "The Old Man of the Mountain? One of them, at least. Few others would submit themselves to such perverse mutilations for their craft."

Milky pupils met her own, promising agony they couldn't deliver. 

"You could have fled and found another master. I've no quarrel with you then, but you acted against me. Why attack even after your master passed on?" 

The pupil-less servant managed to glare at her wrathfully. "You tortured my master. You killed him." 

_It was a him, then. Interesting._

"He did that to himself, trying to combat magecraft from the Age of Gods with parlor tricks. The fact they managed to live so long is laudable - you ought to rejoice!" 

"They were but a youth!" He hissed, seething and straining in stopped time. 

"And they summoned an Assassin. And they joined the war. Worst of all, they entered my abode." She rebutted, eyes set and deadly. "Or were you ignorant of that, Assassin? Did you stumble onto my territory in ignorance?" 

The silence was telling. She indulged in decimating it gleefully. 

"Those who wish to take life ought to accept the risk they'd lose theirs. An _Assassin_ ought to understand that." Rule Breaker materialized in her grasp, the wicked, jagged blade an odd comfort - like vice to an addict. She knew better, truly, but the temptation was utterly intoxicating. "Shame about your master, though. I'd have preferred to sic you on them like a mutt. Put your little toys to use, shearing them apart piece by piece like a butcher." 

The Hassan trembled in impotent anger. 

"Shame I won't get that satisfaction, though there are plenty of uses I can find for even a failure of an assassin like yourself." 

She traced the blade down their chest, savoring the struggle they couldn't muster. 

"I didn't fail." Hassan promised, grin ready in the eyes despite their frozen mouth. "Your master is dying. Dead, soon." 

"I killed him myself." She rebutted, irked at the old reminder of her weakness. The indignity.

"You did." It taunted, pupil darting to their mangled hand. "Do what you will to me, it matters not." 

Rule Breaker dug into the dark flesh of its chest, dragging around like a toothy maggot. Assassin hissed from the pain. 

Something slumped. Barely... a dull thump of falling flesh on unforgiving earth.

Her hand faltered and stayed, knotting into a fist around the handle of her treasure. Teeth gnashed together in fury.

Her spell wouldn't last for long - another two minutes. Two minutes that man didn't have, and she'd wasted even more by gloating. Hassan twitched - a roll of a finger, a single innocuous digit. There would be more soon enough, and the last thing she needed was a blade hurtling into her back. 

_Damn it all._

Rule Breaker faded like the memory it was, and Medea willed the suspended Dirk into her grasp. It buried itself in Assassin's throat with little fanfare, and the servant who was Assassin gurgled and faded into stardust. 

"Soichirou!" She shook the man who'd fallen over, propping his back where he'd rested it earlier. A bloodied handprint taunted her ignorance. The same hand clutched desperately above his chest, fingers paling and nerves straining to pulse. His eyes drifted between lucidity and blankness. 

"I don't suppose you could tell me what happens after?" He joked - hopefully, coughing. "Reincarnation always fascinated me... though I doubt I have much to look forward to." 

"You won't find out. Not yet - focus on me. On my voice." She commanded, lacing magic with the order. He would obey, or he would die. 

He nodded dumbly - slower than the last ones he did. Not a good sign. "Repeat after me." Blink once if you understand - save your strength." 

He did so. 

"Heed my words." 

"H-Heed my words." 

"My will creates your body, and your strength paves my destiny." 

Silence. 

"Please, r-repeat after me. You can't die so easily. You don't have my permission. I won't allow it." Medea of Colchis insisted.

He knew damn well better than to displease her. 

His lips mumbled the words, barely coherent but it had to suffice. 

"I-If you heed the Grail's call and obey my will and reason..." 

He repeated it, slowly. She could see his teeth now, stained ugly red. 

"Then answer me." 

"T-Then... a-" He fought for the words and won, barely. 

"Do so and I will entrust my destiny to your victory." 

"-trust my destiny...your victory."

"On my will as a Caster, I accept your oath."

She reached for his hand, lacing her gloved palm around his slacking grasp.

"I, Medea of Colchis, accept you as my Master, Soichirou Kuzuki." She shook it again, jolting him to the little attention he could spare. His hand burned with the grail's mark. "Now command me to heal you." 

"You don't..." He hacked and wheezed. "-seem the type to take orders." 

"I promise you won't be giving me another." His shoulders rumbled - possibly from exertion. It very well may have been the closest the stoic man could ever get to laughter. 

"Very well. Heal me." 

A red, waxy seal faded into will, and Medea of Colchis obeyed her first and only command in this lifetime. 

<\- ->

A false heart was an interesting to forge, but well within her capability. Implanting it, however, was a different matter altogether. 

But it was done, and he'd lived, she'd a new master, and Assassin and his whelp were dead. A shame about his talent, though... it went beyond the brutal tools and cunning implements of even her own treasure, loathe as she was to admit it openly. Conceptual weapons were among the most potent in their arsenal, capable of felling even the most resistant to her means. Even the knightly servant trio would have no means to survive without a heart, magic resistances be damned. The Hassan would have made a good thrall, or failing that, a half-decent wand. It was a shame she'd had to choose. 

It was well worth it. There were five other servants to pry off their contracts, but Medea of Colchis sincerely doubted there would be any other potential master in the entire city who'd throw themselves in such brazen danger for their servant's sake. No, not even a servant... just some flippant, hooded girl they'd found bleeding in the woods, like some cautionary tail midwives would share to anyone who'd lent an ear. 

It was the closest to good hands she'd find. 

Her new master rested by the tree he'd nearly died at, utterly exhausted. Implanting false flesh and nerves where they'd been ruptured was tedious, but well worth the effort. Few could even attempt to match a servant's pace, let alone survive the scrutiny of an assassin, no less. It would be a fair while before he roused again, and he'd more than earned the respite: he'd paid in blood, after all. She'd shed her coat to give him a modicum of comfort on the unforgiving bark - the cold night air was actually quite refreshing. It lapped and kissed at her skin gently, pleasant but still a far cry from the salted mist of sea foam. 

And not all was last. The ghoulish remains of Assassin's master remained where it fell, neck bent but commands seals dull on the back of their hand. Not even enough power to make a wish, but that was irrelevant: they stood atop rich, infused leylines to siphon all the prana needed. It was the authority the sigil granted that mattered. 

Caster bent low on a single knee, Rule Breaker warped back into her bare palm, fingers tracing scorched flesh and setting to the grisly task of prying the seals off. It was delicate work - certainly not as easy as lopping off a hand. Perhaps not enough for a true assassin, but she'd make due with what remained. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, Hassan was one of them. 
> 
> Other best girl was obviously Homurahara Academy's best drama teacher. 
> 
> Combini - convenience stores in Japan.
> 
> Castellan - dude in charge of managing castles
> 
> Yes, 100% no chill has made her first appearance, and honestly she pretty much wrote herself. 
> 
> *Inserts meme of how Artoria is chilling in Carnival Phantasm while everyone else is living F/Zero rn* 
> 
> I was literally watching it as I wrote, and all I can say is it still holds up. 
> 
> Also, I'm embracing some AU territory now. In canon, Caster killed Assassin's master before the summoning, then used the Mountain gate as a catalyst for her servant's summoning. I'll stick with some little changes here and there.
> 
> I'm guessing Caster wouldn't simp for the barest notion of kindness - otherwise, there wouldn't be much special with her dynamic to her master. She's a skeptic at heart in my opinion, jaded a few dozen times over, and one random act of kindness wouldn't be enough to drop her guard - especially considering the last time she'd taken hospitality, random people chased her out. I like buildup and slow burn, and in this fic most of the cast are starting from zero. 
> 
> My justification of what went down is that True Assassin is loyal to their master, and would rather go for vengeance than find a new one for the war. My justification for Soichirou surviving the Dirks would be them being fast enough to turn lethal hits into less lethal ones, but still getting tagged regardless. And Caster did use the time stop in canon, though only for Archer - bummer how the only servants she encountered had absurd magical resistance.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm alive. Merry Christmas and Happy New year!
> 
> I took the month off to sort stuff out (hell month for college rn) and don't regret doing it. So, I am dubiously alive, but at least am subsisting off deadline generosity and general disorientation keeping me from anxiety. I'm alive, reasonably well, and still interested in seeing every single one of my WIPs through to the bitter end. 
> 
> Wish Ao3 had some sort of newsletter or something so I could update my subscribers with the info I'm both alive and continuing all of my WIPs. As of now, just... well, sorry for the radio silence. College is my priority, after all, and I need to scramble for every bullshit score in the online curriculum.

While she'd never, ever considered a quiet lady's life for her own, Artoria Pendragon could understand some of the appeal behind it. Mastering one's fate came, perhaps for some, within the confines of their own kitchen and kit. The passion for cooking that emblazoned in that boy was positively infectious.

It had taken a handful of days of gentle tutelage from her companions - and embarrassingly enough a few knives wedged into the cutting board a tad too deeply for comfort, going by Sakura's paled expressions at the sight - but the king of knights had progressed well enough with her cookery. Genuine cookery, that was, and not the mere showmanship relegated to her service within the confines of Ahnenerbe. 

Kay would have grinned smugly at the sight of her - wreathed in "proper" apparel, dutifully settling dinners within the pantry like some demure maiden. She'd have glared him into silence of course, at a minimum. Far more, if her adoptive father couldn't bear witness. 

She almost wish he was there to do so again. A sibling's petulance was home in itself, but not one that remained for the displaced. She continued at her evening surprise, kneading at stubborn dough relentlessly. 

It had been modest living in her youth: despite being of a less prestigious house than most, she and Kay and never been left wanting. Sir Ector was a good knight, and more than that a greater father then her own blood had proven. The only thing the siblings yearned for was sating idle curiosities - one of which led them to a bakester's furnace, time and time again. 

Her name had long since been forgotten, but her eyes crinkled and her hair had long greyed and she wore a brimming smile that lost more and more yellowed teeth with the seasons passing. They'd whet their eyes on the matron practicing her trade, and very rarely their teeth on the rare days she'd ended them with treats to spare. 

She was a kindly old woman. It was pleasant to envision her again, staring down at the lost king from the heavens as she tried to put the little knowledge learned into practice. Maybe even guiding her hand, if Artoria could ever find herself inclined to such beliefs. 

The loaf would come crisp and hearty in their fireless furnace. A relic of a recipe of a people worth remembering. She tucked the pan into the oven with a little grin and waited, eyes staring past the orange, dawn-like light until the bread browned and crackled into something beautiful. 

Evidently, it would take a great deal of time. Patience was a virtue, but restlessness was inevitable. Artoria's fingers drummed on the countertop, echoing patters off the sleek metal of the sink. 

The door twisted open, followed by weighty, deliberate footsteps. 

_Emiya, then..._

Sakura would have knocked despite possessing her own set of keys, out of unerring courtesy. 

Taiga... she'd have sprinted in and greeted the house with a yell - perhaps not in that order, but memorable all the same. 

She made her way to greet him - still out of sight - before a heavy thump shook the flooring, followed by light, rounded rattles of whatever he'd been carrying. Emiya cried out in pain from the impact, and she redoubled her efforts. 

Emiya was half-sprawled on the floor, hair a red, tousled mess, clutching an emptied box as now-bruised persimmons dotted the floor. The boy's right hand drifted over the opposite shoulder, hesitant and expression contorted in the familiar pain she'd seen among her soldiers. 

"Emiya-" She barked, urgent and concerned. "Are you injured? Or perchance ill?" 

Emiya returned an embarrassed gaze, rubbing the back of his head, box left to the floor. "No, um... just clumsy is all." 

"Nonsense. You've always had a steady hand for the time I've known you." Artoria rebutted, bending down to collect the fallen fruit. "Was your schooling particularly strenuous today?" 

"Um..." He returned, at a modest loss - likely at her own extravagant choice of words, unfortunately. Artoria cursed her own ignorance under a soft breathe, which thankfully went unheard. He'd taken to the task as well, struggling to grasp for at unseen fruit that'd scuttled itself under the dresser, before continuing. "Work, actually." 

They let the conversation still while gathering the mess. It settled quickly enough, and Artoria moved to carry the laden container before Emiya shook his head at the motion. She stopped, if only out of curiosity. 

"I can carry it." He assured unconvincingly. He'd shifted far too much weight onto his right hand to steady himself to stand. His left shoulder was blatantly stiff, the connected arm set, and fingers tremoring around the corner of the box. "J-Just tripped when I tried opening the door at the same time." 

"I see." She returned, before scooping the fruited box in her arms. 

_Stubborn boy._

It was stupidly endearing - like an overeager squire insistent on hauling enough wrought iron on their backs to flatten an ox. Always to prove some irrelevant point. 

"W-Wait? What are you-" He protested. 

"Your grip was slacking. Fingers faltering. You were injured, and don't bother denying it." The former king hefted the cargo like the farmgirl most had assumed of her in youth. "As I recall, your work involves even heavier hauls for much longer, sorting shelves in those..." The right word ghosted the tip of her tongue, departing in ignorance. 

" _Konbini_ -" 

"Precisely." She'd strike the word to memory from this point on. "I can handle this for the moment. Don't exert yourself beyond your limits, Emiya." 

"It's fine, Artoria. I promise." He insisted. "And it'd be wrong to let you carry stuff." 

"Why is that, exactly?" She asked - more dared, really, already dreading the answer. 

"Because you're a girl, of course." 

It would have been rude to roll her eyes then and there, right in front of his own - blessedly ignorant of his own trespasses. She turned away for a moment and hid her indignance with a cough. 

It was a conflict of culture, not to be held against her host. These lands leveled a certain reverence to femininity, which dictated a good deal of ladylike behavior. In all honesty it wasn't quite different from the matronly royalty of Brittania. It was, however, very, very removed from her own upbringing. Sir Ector wasn't the type of man to waste a good pair of hands, no matter the sex of the one attached to them. And Artoria had never seen a problem with that arrangement, then and 'till now. 

Making all of that clear as day to Emiya would doubtlessly be a prudent step forward. A necessary one, even. 

"I'm much stronger than you give me credit for." She stated neutrally, hefting the laden package with a single hand. 

"That's... true." Emiya conceded - it stirred an oddly pleasant feeling in the fallen king. "And you managed to stay alive for so long that night, even though you were hurt and all... you really are strong." 

The memory of Clarent buried in her abdomen flickered, along with the scent of the rotting refuse that would have been her final resting place. 

"I am. Yet I'd have died without your aid then." She'd made peace with that long ago - all this was borrowed time. Precious. "You needn't be strong alone." 

How hypocritical. True nonetheless. 

And rather... theatrical, over such a tiny matter. 

"I guess. It feels weird letting a girl carry things for me." Emiya finally accepted, though his face still wore a little shimmer of embedded doubt. 

"You didn't seem particularly bothered with the notion of Taiga doing the same then..." 

"That's different. Taiga's... well, Taiga." 

The statement shouldn't have spoken for itself quite so well. Artoria sprouted a little smile at the apt absurdity. 

"I believe she'd be interested in such colorful opinions from her adoptive sibling." 

"H-Hey!" 

<\- ->

There'd been some kind of precedent set, in one of those old cartoons that aired years ago - back when she'd been a student herself - that married the idea of Christmas cakes and beer. No, she would not explain it to you. She was saving herself, obviously, and anyone who thought otherwise were welcome to contest her and reap the consequences. 

Taiga Fujiura wasn't _quite_ that bad. She'd only sipped at her drink, which frothed gently in dark amber glass. It wasn't her fault the bottle emptied itself a tad faster than expected - her companion was waaaaay worse, yes. The (off-duty, thankfully) schoolteacher eyed the the gentle lettering with a critical, sleep-deprived eye - some foreign brand, angry syllables outing the parent company as German, most likely. It tasted a strange blend of mellow and embittered, with a ratio she couldn't quite pin down. 

"Sake gets old after a while, y'know?" 

Otoko Hotaruzuka grinned back opposite her with the usual expression she wore: that is, eyes near-perpetually shut, a dopey grin and oxymoronically-steadfast sway that would suggest to the average passerby the old girl had partaken a bit more then she ought to have. 

It would have been a poor assumption. Otoko sampled her own products, just like any self-respecting small business owner, and had developed enough of a tolerance to put men half their age to shame twice over. Taiga wasn't entirely sure if that was laudable or just disappointing, what with the eye-watering price tags of some of her drinks of choice. 

"I'll take your word for it." She replied, crossing her ankles and nursing the delightful buzz thrumming in her head.

They settled back into the comfortable silence of old friends making questionable decisions. 

A suited man wearing her family's pin stared at the odd duo, lax on the other side of the restaurant and thankfully out of her friend's view. Probably some protection detail assigned to look over her - not that she really needed one. Either that or just crappy luck - one of her grandfather's men just stumbling onto the chief's little _tanuki._

Grandfather had been insistent on the term, and it, unfortunately, stuck around and circulated like laughter among even the most stoic of her grandfather's lieutenants. Taiga Fujimura had yet to live it down, and neither would her observer if he dared make mention of the nickname. 

She waved a hand to get her message across: _another one, please_ to any of the waiting staff on standby and _don't you dare interrupt us_ to the fledgling of a footsoldier. He made the right call and turned back to his own meal - something dark and spread on a rather big plate, difficult to make out from the distance and she didn't really care to try. 

"So yet again, Otoko," She began, focused on the meat of their usual hangouts - that is to say, the obnoxiously well-warranted mutual venting. "Yet again, the parent's associations are cracking down on my kids for 'rebelliousness'. Such a freaking pain dealing with all these inane complaints with the 'professionalism required in our noble careers'. Bah." 

She took a generous draught of her beer to punctuate the sentiment, discarding the playful faux-bawling she did in front of the kids in favor of genuine (well-earned, if she did say so herself) indignance. 

"Are they, though? At this day and age, it's kind of expected for them to be a bit more argumentative, right?" Otoko returned, the both of them knowing the sentiment came from ([un]fortunately, shared) personal experience more than anything. And maybe a touch of debatable empathy, just for good measure. 

"Yeah, I guess, if they were complaining about real things?" Taiga rebutted, slow and speculative against the tiresome trend threatening to take away her rare heady respite and replace it with a mood-staunching migraine. "But hair color, really?"

"I mean, I'm no biology... whatsit? Professor? But natural purple hair is a bit of a stretch." She continued on, tilting her glass into another much-welcomed swig, teased by little flecks of bubbling foam rather then the quarter the overworked educator _surely_ hadn't finished yet, and replying to the world at large with an irritated pout at no one in particular. Which was to say everyone, of course.

"But no, they don't bat an eye at all. I mean, good for Sakura-" Great for Sakura, really. Poor girl had enough to deal with as is. "But it's always Shirou that gets the complaints, or at least the ones that go through! It's so unfair!" 

For her, of course. Legal guarding (she was the English teacher, shut up.) wasn't easy - who else would help her little brother out with the leftovers? They'd pile up and spoil over if she spent more than a day not addressing _that_ issue. And fighting Homurahara academy tooth and nail just to keep his hair natural was a whole dumb ordeal on its own." 

"He can't be the only one, though?" Otoko spurned on, fingers interlaced and folded under her sharp chin. 

"He's not even the most extreme one. I mean, Ayako's a redhead too, but no one else seems to be complaining about her." Granted, not many people - including most adults - could weather the usually good-natured girl's wilting glare. It was the kind of tool one developed after being forced to deal with difficult people with a perpetual smile stapled onto their faces*. "And don't even get me started on the student council president's audacious bright blue!" 

* Taiga honestly considered her a kindred spirit on that alone. 

"So what's the problem, exactly?" 

"They, um... don't like Shirou." He wasn't the most well-received of his batch at the best of times, and it'd been ages since her little brother had been at his best. 

Otoko straightened her back at that and pursued her lips like her beer had spoiled in her mouth. It was another welcome reminder why they'd remained friends in their maturity years. "He's a decent worker and a good boy." 

"Also a good chef, but they don't see that. Any of that." Taiga shared as levelly as possible - which started off promising, but ended on a denatured huff that betrayed her. 

"What could they possibly be seeing?" 

"A doormat, for some of them. They just keep asking him for help and time and favors even when they know it's bad for him." And he gave and gave and gave without a single thought spared for himself, just like his father did for every single year she knew him. "Weirdly enough, Shinji's the best person at keeping them off him. Just starts yanking Shirou away to cut classes, or heckling the person asking if that isn't possible, until they leave or try to start a fight with him." 

And it was Shinji Matou, so there was definitely a sizeable count of the latter. Thank goodness Kerry's kid was a peacekeeper at heart. 

"For others - get this." Taiga began, wrestling with a childish giggle and coming dangerously close to losing the bout. "a ladykiller." 

"Emiya? Shirou Emiya?" Otoko's expression softened, shifting from concern to disbelief and settling in a comfortable middleground amalgamation best described as priceless. 

"I know!" The teacher returned, unbecoming exasperation understated and starting to... well, become. "He just does nice things for everyone, but it tends to be mostly the girls who're willing to ask for help with this and that... y'know, the kind of things that make you grow on people? Most of the time guys just want loans from other guys, and it's a bit harder to fall for people just because they'd spot you for an afternoon bento." 

If they did, well, she wouldn't judge them for their lack of standards. 

"So what I'm hearing right now, from his legal guardian, no less..." Otoko trailed off, voice honeyed with more mischief then malice. "... is I ought to dock his pay for his sake?" 

"Don't get any ideas there, buster." Taiga warned, matching playful with playful before the joke marbled back into concern. "Worst part is I think he'd just roll over and take it even if you did do that." 

"If anything, I actually owe him a raise." 

"Don't think he'd appreciate the pity party, even if it did give him a bit more pocket money." Otoko meant well, but there were some things you had to say without saying them. Pass it along at best while protecting a hurt boy's privacy. 

"No, not that." The older woman waved off, not quite grasping the undertones of it all. For the best, maybe. "He must have told you about it earlier, right? Even had him promise and saw him drop by the payphone to do it." 

_Huh._

"No, nothing of the sort." The last time they'd spoken had been over breakfast, munching on leftovers with a very fired-up Artoria. 

The shop owner grit her teeth and shook her head in a way that let Taiga know she'd probably be feeling the same way soon enough. "That damn brat..." 

"What?" She repeated with hushed, hurried concern. Promptly ignored in favor of ordering another set of bottles. 

_Thanks, Otoko._

"Microwave messed up at the store earlier to day." The words spilled out clipped, wary, and guilty. There might have been more trying to make their way up, if only her frustrated friend didn't see fit to drown what could have been in a fresh swig of beer. "Real bad." 

"Like, short-circuited?" Taiga offered dubiously, thinking back on the oddness that crept upon Fuyuki. Random blackouts in the dead of night - where students and children slept past, but caffeinated adults found themselves startled by. Malfunctioning electronics... like a silenced fridge or a fan that wouldn't turn for some random reason. 

Otoko shook her head, frustrated at a lot of things. Including, or especially, herself. "Blew up. My pretty face almost caught a melting microwave door." 

"Are..." Taiga began, gulped, and continued. "Are you absolutely sure it didn't?" 

A beat. 

"Sorry, bad joke." 

Otoko rolled her eyes and grinned viciously, ear-to-ear, for a moment. It faded into a thin line. "You ass... just like him. Your boy saved me from that. And it worries me." 

"Sounds like him." She replied, voice modulated but paying rapt attention and afraid for the worst. 

No, Otoko was with her and not calling her over the phone. Shirou was healthy enough to do something stupid. At the very least, conscious enough to convince her... then again, Otoko wasn't the most observant of people... then again...

_Nope. Stop overthinking. Stop it, Taiga._

"It's just... now that I think about it, Taiga... he just stood there." 

"What?" Her throat parched and probably wasn't the beer's fault. She stared at her old friend, toes curling in her shoes and a chill running expectantly down her sine. 

Another long draught - half the bottle, at least, this time. "He could have pushed me out of the way, Taiga. But he didn't. He just moved in front of me and stood there. At least, longer then he should have. Caught part of the door on his shoulder, burned part of his outfit too, and probably some skin underneath." 

"You should have called me." 

"Yeah, hindsight." Otoko half-apologized before bowing dejectedly. "I should have, I'm sorry. He told me it didn't hurt, and he was fine, and I was dumb enough to believe him and even dumber to let him go off on his own. And he looked so... pleased with himself. It didn't really set in 'till we started talking now, but it was scary. Like he didn't mind it, or worse, wanted it to hurt. Just what the hell does that say?" 

A city burned to cinders. Survivor's remorse she couldn't imagine, for better or worse. A few other things best not revisited, least of all shared. 

Instead, Taiga Fujimura took a long, long drought that drained the lonely bottle in her faltering grasp. 

She ordered another for accompaniment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the most involved chapter, admittedly. A lot of this stage-setting is necessary, even if a lot of it felt like some mild form of character shilling. Hopefully it didn't. Either way I'll definitely try to minimize these instances. 
> 
> So... I'll just clear that the yakuza guy is irrelevant. I'm pretty proud of the fact I don't use OCs unless absolutely needed, and so far 200k+ words in for my cumulative outputs I've never needed to use one.
> 
> Also apparently in Japan, dyed hair is a very big no-no in schools. It used to be non-black hair was the issue 'till someone remembered that there are other default hair colors, and now you don't get bugged by them if you can produce proof of your original hair color. 
> 
> Also, since I hit 3k+ words I had to cut the chapter in half. Hope y'all don't mind. While the word count is pretty normal for the entry, a lot of the elements here will be expanded upon in the next entry. As much as I'd love to fold more content into this one, I think it'd be best if I just rested on what I can accomplish for now. 
> 
> I'm experimenting a bit with writing styles here, playing around with different descriptives from my usual entries. Feedback for this in particular would be greatly appreciated, and might help me figure out the stylistic direction for the next immediate chapter (at a minimum).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I ATE'NT DEAD'
> 
> Hey, my beautiful readers. Sorry for the long damn hiatus. I could make something up about family and friends or school, and it'd all be right to some degree but not the entire story. The truth is, I had a long cycle of stuff introduced to me. 
> 
> Mid-update, I discovered Persona 4 Golden on steam. Mistake - took a month of my life, and I have a hundred hours of game time in 2 weeks. Then right after that I discovered Fire Emblem: Three Houses... so, yeah... I've played through two full routes already, so super sorry for the late update. 
> 
> I will finish this fic, mark my words. We aren't more than 10 chapters away from Actually Satan breaking the ceiling.

It was none of her business, but the king of knights found herself morbidly enraptured by the sight. 

Matou, Sakura. Emiya, Shirou. Upset. Arguing. Just outside the abode, hands waving and voices raised and plentiful protests on both parts - indignant for Emiya's, pleading for Sakura's. She'd scarcely noticed her own splayed leg along the flooring, bouncing uncomfortably in quiet empathy of the display. It reminded her of the sparse childhood days, watching Kay act questionably and fail to justify himself under Sir Ector's steely, withering gaze.

Unlike those two, this didn't belong. They ought to have been thick as thieves.

Sakura doted on the boy when she joined them in the evenings, eyes always flickering about and very, very practiced at stealing glances. Emiya was obviously fond of her as well, in ways lost to even himself at times. The curse of men - one she'd even, amusingly enough, found herself victim to at times during her reign. It lent itself far too well towards ignorance. 

They oughtn't have been fighting. It was unbecoming of their natures. 

Sakura gesticulated more, and Emiya yanked a brown sleeve down in response to whatever the girl's words revealed.

_Most certainly the burns, then._

That explained far more, then - concern was preferable, if not always welcomed by the individual. She'd screamed herself hoarse over her brother Kay's rare lapses in judgement, and he'd done the same for her as the older brother she loathed to love in their shared youth. It oft began with a brawl and culminated in a shared meal to make amends... along with Sir Ector's presence by the head of the table, glowering the both of them into tentative acquiesce. 

Pitifully, that wasn't the case. For the first instance in over a fortnight of evenings she'd bore witness too, Sakura turned on her heel and departed in discomfort. the purple-haired girl shuffled off, a few notes hunched over and pace quickening as if she'd been spurned by a lover. 

Emiya wandered back, pausing at the door, stilling his outstretched hand, and sat by the wooden porch of the home, heaving a sigh Artoria felt more than heard. 

Wordlessly, the king of knights made their way towards the sordid sight. It wouldn't sit well to pry, but the little she'd learned of Emiya noted that was more than necessary with his neglectful nature. And the (far more) she'd learned of Taiga clarified it would be the proper course of action. 

"Is Sakura unwell?" She began, doing away with the language she suffered at in favor of communication. There would be plenty of time to embarrass herself later.

"No." 

"Her brother, then?" Artoria hoped. If only she would be so lucky...

"You could say that." Emiya replied, before settling back into disquieting silence. Even the winds found themselves stilling, and Artoria could have sworn she could still make out the muffled footfalls Sakura scored onto grass. "You could say a lot of things." 

"I've said plenty." She retorted, dredging into the remnants of memory that might aid her. It was odd, to say the least, to find herself in such a delicate situation. Where a king's decrees or a knight's strength fell short, and instinct's she'd certainly never been born with, much less used, eluded her memories. Perhaps borrowing them would suffice.

She coughed into a fist, and Emiya met her eyes. Good. 

_Guinevere, lend me your solicitude._

"You're bothered." And there went finesse, dying an ugly death. Her wife would have rolled in her grave. "It's unlike you." 

Emiya shook his head, but spoke nonetheless. It was confusing. "Sakura's overreacting." 

"May I ask as to why that is?" 

"We had a disagreement."

"I take it that involved your recent injury?" The memory of him scrunching up the sleeve still within her mind's eye. 

Emiya Shirou stretched, and the floorboards creaked from the strain. "A lot more than that. No one would listen to me." 

"I'm listening to you."

"No, not like that. They all said that, too. But no one was listening. They just heard me and spoke about what I said." 

"So they heard you, but didn't listen... but they spoke of what you spoke off?" 

"Just because they hear you doesn't mean they're listening." 

"I see." She stopped, curiosity clipped to silence from that point on. 

<\- ->

It mattered little how well any of her court appeared. The Knights of the Round happened to be dashing all and all, but that simply came after the fact rather than entwine itself with it. She'd have gladly admitted the righteous and gallant no matter how unseemly they may have looked, and the kingdom's armies were never filled with even a fraction of the beautiful subjects and soft features so much artistry oft sought to portray.

It was mostly Grizzled men and haunted boys alike, leaving parts of themselves on the battlefield, be it spirit or flesh or joy. Including the archers among them - Artoria had long since known that the most scarred of warriors had the strongest souls. They'd lived to bear them proudly, and she'd gladly take half a dozen of her marred footsoldiers over a hundred noble-borne sons, crests pristine and armor unused, gleaming with the polish of cowardice. 

Shirou Emiya's injuries paled in comparison to that. Nothing but a moderate scald on his shoulder - nothing compared to the burnt pitch she'd seen scorching Camlaan and her people, matching the red hues of the last dawn of her life. And they'd seen fit to rob him of the means to his talent on that alone. Deplorable. 

"Um... Artoria..." Emiya reminded, sparing a sideward glance at the openly irked blond. His hands clutched cloth, polishing the floors to a respectable sheen. 

She swallowed her scowl and softened her expression. Hopefully. "My apologies if I seemed cross, Emiya. You are not to blame." 

_Obviously. How dare they._

Artoria Pendragon set herself to her own task for the evening, mindful of her own indignation lest she shatter the beautiful porcelain in her grasp. It was a lovely thing, ivory white and streaked by caring hands with elegant, blue murals. She'd never been fond of such in her own time. Or fragile beauty in general, really. Perhaps that was why Guinevere stood out among the petulant gaggle of nobility. Why they'd always seen eye-to-eye until they could no longer. 

"I'm sorry if I was wrong." He continued irregardless. "Can you tell me why? Please?" 

Reckless boy. Volunteering to shoulder the burdens they needn't. The king smiled, despite herself. Earnestness was a rare quality in people, rarer one she got to enjoy. 

"Your concern is enough." 

"Can I try to guess why at least?" 

"Why would you?" 

"Because I like talking with you. And something on your mind is bothering you. I don't mean to... pry, I think? But you're not very good at hiding what you feel?" 

"Oh?" 

She'd been a stoic king for decades. Then again, she hadn't been a king for quite a while now...

Emiya continued scrubbing for a moment before pausing, sitting upright on a yet-to-be-cleaned spot of floor, resting tired arms flat on his lap. 

"When something's wrong..." He scratched his head - had to have. She hadn't been looking his way, but she'd spent enough time with Merlin to know the sound of one ruffling their hair in confusion, by sound if not by heart by now. "... you get all serious and stuff. Your face just folds into this... face... I don't know the right word for it yet." 

"Stoic?" Artoria offered. The word had flitted around here and there in her circles, often in hushed whispers not quite hushed enough. 

"Yeah! Exactly. Just like my father, actually. Think that's why I noticed it - I'm usually not one for noticing how people feels... feel..." He admitted, and she could just make out an embarrassed little lilt in his tone. At least he was aware of it... perhaps not enough for Sakura's sake, poor thing. 

"I often hear much of him and his escapades." She confessed, setting the apothecary back on the display it belonged. 

"Don't believe everything Taiga says." 

"I'm well aware. There must be some truth to them, however minute they may be. May I ask about your father?" 

"Um..." 

Perhaps she'd overstepped. Artoria offered a quick, conciliatory bow. "I never meant to cause you discomfort. Please do not go on if it upsets you." 

"N-No, it's fine... um..." He began, head swaying in thought - presumably trying to jostle out old memories. "He was nice. He went on trips abroad a lot. Mostly Germany, I think. On business, a lot of the time. He always came back with sweets for us. Taiga always managed to get to them before I did." 

"Truly I am shocked." 

Emiya laughed. A boy's laugh, youthful and nervous. 

"He was a good man." Emiya shared, a hint of pride winking into the statement.

Then why did his face fall so?

"But he was always so sad, even when he smiled. You can tell sometimes, when the smile doesn't reach your eyes no matter how high your mouth goes. Taiga taught me how a long time ago, but I'm not very good at it." 

"..."

"And I forgot about it a long time ago, honest. I didn't do anything about it then, because he always said he was fine and I always believed everything he said. I mean, who would believe Taiga over just about anyone else?" He ended it on a small laugh that she was attentive enough to share in. 

He continued on, expression falling just as flat. Was her own change possibly that abrupt as well?

"Turns out Taiga was right, and I should have listened - please don't tell her that. And he got sick, and kept getting sicker by the day, and he kept saying he was fine when his body started failing and his promises turned to lies and he passed on lying about how he was fine and we shouldn't worry about him..." 

"Emiya..." 

"No, it's fine... well, I'm fine now. But I know better, I think." He shook the thought off, quite literally. "So please don't say everything is okay when everything isn't. I want to listen. I know I make a show of being all bothered by Taiga badgering me with her unending problems, but I'm happy she does it - and please, I'm begging you not to tell her that as well. Now... may I ask what's bothering you?" 

"Your exile from archery. It was a sham." She'd nearly spat, a note more invested in it than she ought to be as a mere spectator. 

"Um... exile is a strong word for it, Artoria. But yes, it was in a way. And now I can sort of see we could have avoided all of this if I'd just talked about it earlier." 

"Perhaps." She conceded. "Sakura seemed rather heated earlier as well, and you made mention of her brother. I doubt he was a positive force in this situation." 

"Well no, but yes. He was being a friend by getting me kicked out." 

"Please, stop speaking in riddles, Emiya." 

"I'm not! Sakura didn't believe it either." 

"Did you both conspire for this outcome?" 

"No?" 

"Then I fail to see how he was aiding you." 

"Well, I don't think he meant too, but he did. Let me explain." Emiya took a moment to gather his thoughts, finding them wanting but proceeding nonetheless. "Shinji and I have a unique friendship... I think." 

"I fail to see how surrounding your interests out of some misaimed sense of public decency is worthwhile. It mayhaps be a cultural discrepancy between my people and yours." It was certainly a possibility she may have been ignorant to. 

"Well, what would you say if it wasn't my interest anymore?" 

"What?" 

"Archery doesn't interest me anymore. Hasn't for a long time now." 

Or he was deceiving even himself in that regard. The boy was just self-sacrificing enough to do just that - with a proud smile on his face to boot. 

Or perhaps not. 

"It's strange, actually. I can get all tough and tell my friends to stop bothering me even if they're just concerned, like you were earlier - I'm sorry about that, by the way - but when it comes to saying no to strangers I just can't bring myself to do it. I've wanted to quit for months now, but I could never bring myself to write the letter, much less give it to our captain. And it was Shinji of all people that gave me a way to do what I wanted to. I guess I'm a liar too - lying to myself and the people around me - and this time I wasn't strong enough to stop lying to myself about doing something I hate on my own. Just like my dad... didn't even need the same blood to pass that on..."

Artoria kept her silence. 

"And that the reason I could do it was because of kindness - because I saved someone, for once in my life! I'd gladly get burned again if it meant someone I cared for wouldn't have to. And I'm grateful to Shinji for helping me do what I failed to for the longest time, even if he didn't do it out of kindness. A-And I couldn't explain that to Sakura, because she just won't believe me no matter what I say. She's so nice and helpful all the time, but now she's fighting with so many people to keep me on a team I don't want to be in anymore, and she just won't listen no matter how much I say on it! I don't want to do archery anymore, and I'm not just saying that for Shinji's sake." 

"..." 

"Artoria." She nodded at the call, attentive. "You believe me, right?" 

_I'd love nothing more to._

But there was so much he'd shed of himself. So much discarded in the name of martyrdom - a fool's errand for a grown woman like her, and a tragedy for one so young and promising. There was nothing beautiful about sacrifice - it was nothing more than glorifying loss to inspire others to do the same, senseless actions. 

"Of course." She lied, pensive. 

He smiled, painfully earnest, with so much intoxicating relief. "I'm glad someone does."

And the Once and Future King's false, comforting faith turned to ash on her tongue. She swallowed it down and fought to push past the demandable sense of betrayal, blooming like thorns in her chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around, y'all. I'm happy to be back and going to try to regularize my updates again. Did this chapter in a day, so the writing groove isn't too far off to meet yet. 
> 
> Also, it may seem OOC for Artoria to lie abt it so lemme try and justify some of it. Say, you noticed someone with a really, really bad martyr complex - even if you didn't know if there was a term for it, someone gladly getting hurt for other people's sakes, then trying to justify that their consequences were coincidentally their goals would be hard to encourage. Artoria doesn't know Emiya wanted to quit for real, and with how he was flexing it so casually it'd be pretty hard to take at face value. Basically, you don't wanna encourage the martyr, but if they're looking at you and practically pleading for some semblance of support or pride it's going to be very hard to shut them down. 
> 
> Justification over. Hopefully it won't even be needed. Once again, thanks for sticking around despite the hiatus.


End file.
